OLD   CREOLE   DAYS. 


OLD  CREOLE  DAYS 


BY 

GEORGE   W.    CABLE 


NEW    YORK 
CHARLES     SCRIBNER'S     SONS 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 
1879- 


PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  Co., 
aos-213  East  lit*  St., 

NEW  YORK. 


Ps 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

'SIEUR  GEORGE i 

'TlTE  POULETTE 25 

BELLES  DEMOISELLES  PLANTATION 60 

JEAN-AH  POQUELIN ; 88 

MADAME  DELICIEUSE 124 

CAFE  DES  EXILE s 162 

"  POSSON  JONE'  " 199 


OLD  CREOLE  DAYS. 


'SIEUR   GEORGE. 

IN  the  heart  of  New  Orleans  stands  a  large  four- 
story  brick  building,  that  has  so  stood  for  about 
three-quarters  of  a  century.  Its  rooms  are  rented 
to  a  class  of  persons  occupying  them  simply  for 
lack  of  activity  to  find  better  and  cheaper  quarters 
elsewhere.  With  its  gray  stucco  peeling  off  in 
broad  patches,  it  has  a  solemn  look  of  gentility  in 
rags,  and  stands,  or,  as  it  were,  hangs,  about  the 
corner  of  two  ancient  streets,  like  a  faded  fop  who 
pretends  to  be  looking  for  employment. 

Under  its  main  archway  is  a  dingy  apothecary- 
shop.  On  one  street  is  the  bazaar  of  a  modiste  en 
robes  et  cliapeaux  and  other  humble  shops  ;  on  the 
other,  the  immense  batten  doors  with  gratings  over 
the  lintels,  barred  and  bolted  with  masses  of  cob- 
webbed  iron,  like  the  door  of  a  donjon,  are  over- 
hung by  a  creaking  sign  (left  by  the  sheriff),  on 
which  is  faintly  discernible  the  mention  of  wines 


2  Old  Creole  Days. 

and  liquors.  A  peep  through  one  of  the  shops  re- 
veals a  square  court  within,  hung  with  many  lines 
of  wet  clothes,  its  sides  hugged  by  rotten  staircases 
that  seem  vainly  trying  to  clamber  out  of  the  rub- 
bish. 

The  neighborhood  is  one  long  since  given  up  to 
fifth-rate  shops,  whose  masters  and  mistresses  dis- 
play such  enticing  mottoes  as  "  An  gagne  petit !  " 
Innumerable  children  swarm  about,  and,  by  some 
charm  of  the  place,  are  not  run  over,  but  obstruct 
the  banquettes  playing  their  clamorous  games. 

The  building  is  a  thing  of  many  windows,  where 
passably  good-looking  women  appear  and  disap- 
pear, clad  in  cotton  gowns,  watering  little  outside 
shelves  of  flowers  and  cacti,  or  hanging  canaries' 
cages.  Their  husbands  are  keepers  in  wine-ware- 
houses, rent-collectors  for  the  agents  of  old  French- 
men who  have  been  laid  up  to  dry  in  Paris,  cus- 
tom-house supernumeraries  and  court-clerks'  depu- 
ties (for  your  second-rate  Creole  is  a  great  seeker 
for  little  offices).  A  decaying  cornice  hangs  over, 
dropping  bits  of  mortar  on  passers  below,  like  a 
boy  at  a  boarding-house. 

The  landlord  is  one  Kookoo,  an  ancient  Creole 
of  doubtful  purity  of  blood,  who  in  his  landlordly 
old  age  takes  all  suggestions  of  repairs  as  personal 
insults.  He  was  but  a  stripling  when  his  father 
left  him  this  inheritance,  and  has  grown  old  and 
wrinkled  and  brown,  a  sort  of  periodically  animate 


'  Sieur  George.  3 

mummy,  in  the  business.  He  smokes  cascarilla, 
wears  velveteen,  and  is  as  punctual  as  an  execu- 
tioner. 

To  Kookoo's  venerable  property  a  certain  old 
man  used  for  many  years  to  come  every  evening, 
stumbling  through  the  groups  of  prattling  children 
who  frolicked  about  in  the  early  moonlight — whose 
name  no  one  knew,  but  whom  all  the  neighbors 
designated  by  the  title  of  'Sieur  George.  It  was 
his  wont  to  be  seen  taking  a  straight — too  straight 
— course  toward  his  home,  never  careening  to  right 
or  left,  but  now  forcing  himself  slowly  forward,  as 
though  there  were  a  high  gale  in  front,  and  now 
scudding  briskly  ahead  at  a  ridiculous  little  dog- 
trot, as  if  there  were  a  tornado  behind.  He  would 
go  up  the  main  staircase  very  carefully,  sometimes 
stopping  half-way  up  for  thirty  or  forty  minutes' 
doze,  but  getting  to  the  landing  eventually,  and 
tramping  into  his  room  in  the  second  story,  with 
no  little  elation  tu  5nd  it  still  there.  Were  it  not 
for  these  slight  symptoms  of  potations,  he  was 
such  a  one  as  you  would  pick  out  of  a  thousand  for 
a  miser.  A  year  or  two  ago  he  suddenly  disap- 
peared. 

A  great  many  years  ago,  when  the  old  house 
was  still  new,  a  young  man  with  no  baggage  save 
a  small  hair-trunk,  came  and  took  the  room  I  have 
mentioned  and  another  adjoining.  He  supposed 
he  might  stay  fifty  days — and  he  stayed  fifty  years 


4  Old  Creole  Days. 

and  over.     This  was  a  very  fashionable  neighbor 
hood,  and   he   kept   the   rooms   on    that   account 
month  after  month. 

But  when  he  had  been  here  about  a  year  some- 
thing happened  to  him,  so  it  was  rumored,  that 
greatly  changed  the  tenor  of  his  life  ;  and  from 
that  time  on  there  began  to  appear  in  him  and  to 
accumulate  upon  each  other  in  a  manner  which  be- 
came the  profound  study  of  Kookoo,  the  symp- 
toms of  a  decay,  whose  cause  baffled  the  landlord's 
limited  powers  of  conjecture  for  well  nigh  half  a 
century.  Hints  of  a  duel,  of  a  reason  warped,  of 
disinheritance,  and  many  other  unauthorized  ru- 
mors, fluttered  up  and  floated  off,  while  he  became 
recluse,  and,  some  say,  began  incidentally  to  be- 
tray the  unmanly  habit  which  we  have  already 
noticed.  His  neighbors  would  have  continued 
neighborly  had  he  allowed  them,  but  he  never  let 
himself  be  understood,  and  les  Amc'ricains  are 
very  droll  anyhow  ;  so,  as  they  could  do  nothing 
else,  they  cut  him. 

So  exclusive  he  became  that  (though  it  may 
have  been  for  economy)  he  never  admitted  even  a 
housemaid,  but  kept  his  apartments  himself.  Only 
the  merry  serenaders,  who  in  those  times  used  to 
sing  under  the  balconies,  would  now  and  then  give 
him  a  crumb  of  their  feast  for  pure  fun's  sake  ;  and 
after  awhile,  because  they  could  not  find  out  his 
full  name,  called  him,  at  hazard,  George — but  al 


'Sieur  George.  5 

ways  prefixing  Monsieur.  Afterward,  when  he 
began  to  be  careless  in  his  dress,  and  the  fashion 
of  serenading  had  passed  away,  the  commoner 
people  dared  to  shorten  the  title  to  "  'Sieur 
George." 

Many  seasons  came  and  went.  The  city  changed 
like  a  growing  boy  ;  gentility  and  fashion  went  up- 
town, but  'Sieur  George  still  retained  his  rooms. 
Every  one  knew  him  slightly,  and  bowed,  but  no 
one  seemed  to  know  him  well,  unless  it  were  a 
brace  or  so  of  those  convivial  fellows  in  regulation- 
blue  at  little  Fort  St.  Charles.  He  often  came 
home  late,  with  one  of  these  on  either  arm,  all 
singing  different  tunes  and  stopping  at  every  twen- 
ty steps  to  tell  secrets.  But  by-and-by  the  fort 
was  demolished,  church  and  government  property 
melted  down  under  the  warm  demand  for  building- 
lots,  the  city  spread  like  a  ringworm, — and  one 
day  'Sieur  George  steps  out  of  the  old  house  in 
full  regimentals  ! 

The  Creole  neighbors  rush  bareheaded  into  the 
middle  of  the  street,  as  though  there  were  an  earth- 
quake or  a  chimney  on  fire.  What  to  do  or  say 
or  think  they  do  not  know  ;  they  are  at  their  wits' 
ends,  therefore  well-nigh  happy.  However,  there 
is  a  German  blacksmith's  shop  near  by,  and  they 
watch  to  see  what  Jacob  will  do.  Jacob  steps  into 
the  street  with  every  eye  upon  him ;  he  approach- 
es Monsieur — he  addresses  to  him  a  few  remarks— 


6  Old  Creole  Days. 

they  shake  hands — they  engage  in  some  conversa- 
tion— Monsieur  places  his  hand  on  his  sword  !— 
now  Monsieur  passes. 

The  populace  crowd  around  the  blacksmith, 
children  clap  their  hands  softly  and  jump  up  and 
down  on  tiptoes  of  expectation — 'Sieur  George  is 
going  to  the  war  in  Mexico  ! 

"  Ah  !  "  says  a  little  girl  in  the  throng,  "  'Sieur 
George's  two  rooms  will  be  empty  ;  I  find  that 
very  droll." 

The  landlord, — this  same  Kookoo, — is  in  the 
group.  He  hurls  himself  into  the  house  and  up 
the  stairs.  "  Fifteen  years  pass  since  he  have 
been  in  those  room  !  "  He  arrives  at  the  door — it 
is  shut— "It  is  lock  !  " 

In  short,  further  investigation  revealed  that  a 
youngish  lady  in  black,  who  had  been  seen  by 
several  neighbors  to  enter  the  house,  but  had  not, 
of  course,  been  suspected  of  such  remarkable  in- 
tentions, had,  in  company  with  a  middle-aged 
slave-woman,  taken  these  two  rooms,  and  now,  at 
the  slightly-opened  door,  proffered  a  month's  rent 
in  advance.  What  could  a  landlord  do  but  smile  ? 
Yet  there  was  a  pretext  left ;  "  the  rooms  must 
need  repairs  ?  " — "  No,  sir  ;  he  could  look  in  and 
see."  Joy  !  he  looked  in.  All  was  neatness.  The 
floor  unbroken,  the  walls  cracked  but  a  little,  and 
the  cracks  closed  with  new  plaster,  no  doubt  by 
the  jealous  hand  of  'Sieur  George  himself.  Koo- 


'Sieur  George.  7 

koo's  eyes  swept  sharply  round  the  two  apart- 
ments. The  furniture  was  all  there.  Moreover, 
there  was  Monsieur's  little  hair-trunk.  He  should 
not  soon  forget  that  trunk.  One  day,  fifteen  years 
or  more  before,  he  had  taken  hold  of  that  trunk 
to  assist  Monsieur  to  arrange  his  apartment,  and 
Monsieur  had  drawn  his  fist  back  and  cried  to  him 
to  "  drop  it !  "  Mais !  there  it  was,  looking  very 
suspicious  in  Kookoo's  eyes,  and  the  lady's  do- 
mestic, as  tidy  as  a  yellow-bird,  went  and  sat  on 
it.  Could  that  trunk  contain  treasure  ?  It  might, 
for  Madame  wanted  to  shut  the  door,  and,  in  fact, 
did  so. 

The  lady  was  quite  handsome — had  been  more 
so,  but  was  still  young — spoke  the  beautiful  lan- 
guage, and  kept,  in  the  inner  room,  her  discreet 
and  taciturn  mulattress,  a  tall,  straight  woman, 
with  a  fierce  eye,  but  called  by  the  young  Creoles 
of  the  neighborhood  "confound'  good  lookin'." 

Among  les  Am^ricaines,  where  the  new  neigh- 
bor always  expects  to  be  called  upon  by  the  older 
residents,  this  lady  might  have  made  friends  in 
spite  of  being  as  reserved  as  'Sieur  George  ;  but 
the  reverse  being  the  Creole  custom,  and  she  be- 
ing well  pleased  to  keep  her  own  company,  chose 
mystery  rather  than  society. 

The  poor  landlord  was  sorely  troubled  ;  it  must 
not  that  anything  de  trop  take  place  in  his  house. 
He  watched  the  two  rooms  narrowly,  but  withou* 


8  Old  Creole  Days. 

result,  save  to  find  that  Madame  plied  her  needle 
for  pay,  spent  her  money  for  little  else  besides  harp- 
strings,  and  took  good  care  of  the  little  trunk  of 
Monsieur.  This  espionage  was  a  good  turn  to  the 
mistress  and  maid,  for  when  Kookoo  announced 
that  all  was  proper,  no  more  was  said  by  outsiders. 
Their  landlord  never  got  but  one  question  answered 
by  the  middle-aged  maid  : 

"  Madame,  he  feared,  was  a  litt'  bit  embarrass' 
pour  money,  eh  ?  " 

"  Non  ;  Mademoiselle  [Mademoiselle,  you  no- 
tice !]  had  some  property,  but  did  not  want  to  eat 
it  up." 

Sometimes  lady-friends  came,  in  very  elegant 
private  carriages,  to  see  her,  and  one  or  two  seemed 
to  beg  her — but  in  vain — to  go  away  with  them  ; 
but  these  gradually  dropped  off,  until  lady  and 
servant  were  alone  in  the  world.  And  so  years, 
and  the  Mexican  war,  went  by. 

The  volunteers  came  home  ;  peace  reigned,  and 
the  city  went  on  spreading  up  and  down  the  land  ; 
but  'Sieur  George  did  not  return.  It  overran  the 
country  like  cocoa-grass.  Fields,  roads,  wood- 
lands, that  were  once  'Sieur  George's  places  of  re- 
treat from  mankind,  were  covered  all  over  with 
little  one-story  houses  in  the  "  Old  Third,"  and 
fine  residences  and  gardens  up  in  "Lafayette." 
Streets  went  slicing  like  a  butcher's  knife,  through 
old  colonial  estates,  whose  first  masters  never 


'  Sieur  George.  9 

dreamed  of  the  city  reaching  them, — and  'Sieur 
George  was  still  away.  The  four-story  brick  got 
old  and  ugly,  and  the  surroundings  dim  and 
dreamy.  Theatres,  processions,  dry-goods  stores, 
government  establishments,  banks,  hotels,  and  all 
spirit  of  enterprise  were  gone  to  Canal-street  and 
beyond,  and  the  very  beggars  were  gone  with  them. 
The  little  trunk  got  very  old  and  bald,  and  still  its 
owner  lingered  ;  still  the  lady,  somewhat  the  worse 
for  lapse  of  time,  looked  from  the  balcony-window 
in  the  brief  southern  twilights,  and  the  maid  every 
morning  shook  a  worn  rug  or  two  over  the  danger- 
ous-looking railing  ;  and  yet  neither  had  made 
friends  or  enemies. 

The  two  rooms,  from  having  been  stingily  kept 
at  first,  were  needing  repairs  half  the  time,  and  the 
occupants  were  often  moving,  now  into  one,  now 
back  into  the  other  ;  yet  the  hair-trunk  was  seen 
only  by  glimpses,  the  landlord,  to  his  infinite  cha- 
grin, always  being  a  little  too  late  in  offering  his 
services,  the  women,  whether  it  was  light  or  heavy, 
having  already  moved  it.  He  thought  it  significant. 

Late  one  day  of  a  most  bitter  winter, — that  sea- 
son when,  to  the  ecstatic  amazement  of  a  whole 
cityful  of  children,  snow  covered  the  streets  ankle 
deep, — there  came  a  soft  tap  on  the  corridor-door 
of  this  pair  of  rooms.  The  lady  opened  it,  and 
beheld  a  tall,  Jank,  iron-gray  man,  a  total  stranger 
standing  behind — Monsieur  George  !  Both  men 


io  Old  Creole  Days. 

were  weather-beaten,  scarred,  and  tattered.  Across 
'Sieur  George's  crown,  leaving  a  long,  bare  streak 
through  his  white  hair,  was  the  souvenir  of  a  Mex- 
ican saber. 

The  landlord  had  accompanied  them  to  the 
door  :  it  was  a  magnificent  opportunity.  Made- 
moiselle asked  them  all  in  and  tried  to  furnish  a 
seat  to  each  ;  but  failing,  'Sieur  George  went 
straight  across  the  room  and  sat  on  the  hair-trunk. 
The  action  was  so  conspicuous,  the  landlord  laid  it 
up  in  his  penetrative  mind. 

'Sieur  George  was  quiet,  or,  as  it  appeared, 
quieted.  The  mulattress  stood  near  him,  and  to 
her  he  addressed,  in  an  undertone,  most  of  the 
little  he  said,  leaving  Mademoiselle  to  his  com- 
panion. The  stranger  was  a  warm  talker,  and 
seemed  to  please  the  lady  from  the  first  ;  but  if  he 
pleased,  nothing  else  did.  Kookoo,  intensely 
curious,  sought  some  pretext  for  staying,  but  found 
none.  They  were,  altogether,  an  uncongenial 
company.  The  lady  seemed  to  think  Kookoo  had 
no  business  there  ;  'Sieur  George  seemed  to  think 
the  same  concerning  his  companion  ;  and  the  few 
words  between  Mademoiselle  and  'Sieur  George 
were  cool  enough.  The  maid  appeared  nearly 
satisfied,  but  could  not  avoid  casting  an  anxious 
eye  at  times  upon  her  mistress.  Naturally  the 
visit  was  short. 

The  next  day  but  one  the  two  gentlemen  came 


'Sieur  George.  n 

again  in  better  attire.  'Sieur  George  evidently  dis 
liked  his  companion,  yet  would  not  rid  himself  of 
him.  The  stranger  was  a  gesticulating,  stagy 
fellow,  much  Monsieur's  junior,  an  incessant  talker 
in  Creole-French,  always  excited  on  small  matters 
and  unable  to  appreciate  a  great  one.  Once,  as 
they  were  leaving,  Kookoo, — accidents  will  hap- 
pen,— was  under  the  stairs.  As  they  began  to 
descend  the  tall  man  was  speaking:  " — better  to 
bury  it," — the  startled  landlord  heard  him  say, 
and  held  his  breath,  thinking  of  the  trunk  ;  but  no 
more  was  uttered. 

A  week  later  they  came  again. 

A  week  later  they  came  again. 

A  week  later  they  came  yet  again  ! 

The  landlord's  eyes  began  to  open.  There  must 
be  a  courtship  in  progress.  It  was  very  plain  now 
why  'Sieur  George  had  wished  not  to  be  accom- 
panied by  the  tall  gentleman  ;  but  since  his  visits 
had  become  regular  and  frequent,  it  was  equally 
plain  why  he  did  not  get  rid  of  him  ; — because  it 
would  not  look  well  to  be  going  and  coming  too 
often  alone.  Maybe  it  was  only  this  tender  passion 
that  the  tall  man  had  thought  "better  to  bury." 
Lately  there  often  came  sounds  of  gay  conversation 
from  the  first  of  the  two  rooms,  which  had  been 
turned  into  a  parlor  ;  and  as,  week  after  week,  the 
friends  came  down-stairs,  the  tali  man  was  always  in 
high  spirits  and  anxious  to  embrace  'Sieur  George, 


1 2  Old  Creole  Days. 

who, — "  sly  dog,"  thought  the  landlord, — would  try 
to  look  grave,  and  only  smiled  in  an  embarrassed 
way.  "  Ah  !  Monsieur,  you  tink  to  be  varry  con- 
ning ;  mats  you  not  so  conning  as  Kookoo,  no  ;  " 
and  the  inquisitive  little  man  would  shake  his  head 
and  smile,  and  shake  his  head  again,  as  a  man  has  a 
perfect  right  to  do  under  the  conviction  that  he  has 
been  for  twenty  years  baffled  by  a  riddle  and  is 
learning  to  read  it  at  last  ;  he  had  guessed  what 
was  in  'Sieur  George's  head,  he  would  by  and  by 
guess  what  was  in  his  trunk. 

A  few  months  passed  quickly  away,  and  it  be- 
came apparent  to  every  eye  in  or  about  the  an- 
cient mansion  that  the  landlord's  guess  was  not  so 
bad  ;  in  fact,  that  Mademoiselle  was  to  be  mar- 
ried. 

On  a  certain  rainy  spring  afternoon,  a  single 
hired  hack  drove  up  to  the  main  entrance  of  the 
old  house,  and  after  some  little  bustle  and  the 
gathering  of  a  crowd  of  damp  children  about  the 
big  doorway,  'Sieur  George,  muffled  in  a  newly- 
repaired  overcoat,  jumped  out  and  went  upstairs. 
A  moment  later  he  reappeared,  leading  Mademoi- 
selle, wreathed  and  veiled,  down  the  stairway. 
Very  fair  was  Mademoiselle  still.  Her  beauty  was 
mature, — fully  ripe, — maybe  a  little  too  much  so, 
but  only  a  little  ;  and  as  she  came  down  with  the 
ravishing  odor  of  bridal  flowers  floating  about  her, 
she  seemed  the  garlanded  victim  of  a  pagan  sacri- 


'Sieur  George.  13 

fice.     The  mulattress  in  holiday  gear  followed  be- 
hind. 

The  landlord  owed  a  duty  to  the  community. 
He  arrested  the  maid  on  the  last  step:  "Your 
mistress,  she  goin'  pour  marier  'Sieur  George  ? 
It  make  me  glad,  glad,  glad  !  " 

"  Marry  'Sieur  George  ?     Non,  Monsieur." 
"  Non  ?       Not  marrie  'Sieur    George?      Mais 
comment  ?  " 

"  She's  going  to  marry  the  tall  gentleman." 
"  Diable  !  ze  long  gentyman  !  " — With  his  hands 
upon  his  forehead,  he  watched  the  carriage  trundle 
away.  It  passed  out  of  sight  through  the  rain  ; 
he  turned  to  enter  the  house,  and  all  at  once 
tottered  under  the  weight  of  a  tremendous  thought 
— they  had  left  the  trunk  !  He  hurled  himself 
upstairs  as  he  had  done  seven  years  before,  but 
again — "  Ah,  bah  !  !  " — the  door  was  locked,  and 
not  a  picayune  of  rent  due. 

Late  that  night  a  small  square  man,  in  a  wet 
overcoat,  fumbled  his  way  into  the  damp  entrance 
of  the  house,  stumbled  up  the  cracking  stairs,  un- 
locked, after  many  languid  efforts,  the  door  of  the 
two  rooms,  and  falling  over  the  hair-trunk,  slept 
until  the  morning  sunbeams  climbed  over  the  bal- 
cony and  in  at  the  window,  and  shone  full  on  the 
back  of  his  head.  Old  Kookoo,  passing  the  door 
just  then,  was  surprised  to  find  it  slightly  ajar- 
pushed  it  open  silently,  and  saw,  within,  'Sieur 


14  Old  Creole  Days. 

George  in  the  act  of  rising  from  his  knees  beside  the 
mysterious  trunk  !  He  had  come  back  to  be  once 
more  the  tenant  of  the  two  rooms. 

'Sieur  George,  for  the  second  time,  was  a  changed 
man — changed  from  bad  to  worse  ;  from  being  re- 
tired and  reticent,  he  had  come,  by  reason  of  ad- 
vancing years/  or  mayhap  that  which  had  left  the 
terrible  scar  on  his  face,  to  be  garrulous.  When, 
once  in  a  while,  employment  sought  him  (for  he 
never  sought  employment),  whatever  remuneration 
he  received  went  its  way  for  something  that  left 
him  dingy  and  threadbare.  He  now  made  a  lively 
acquaintance  with  his  landlord,  as,  indeed,  with 
every  ?oul  in  the  neighborhood,  and  told  all  his 
adventures  in  Mexican  prisons  and  Cuban  cities  ; 
including  full  details  of  the  hardships  and  perils 
experienced  jointly  with  the  "long  gentleman" 
who  had  married  Mademoiselle,  and  who  was  no 
Mexican  or  Cuban,  but  a  genuine  Louisianian. 

"  It  was  he  that  fancied  me,"  he  said,  ''not  I 
him  ;  but  once  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  me  I 
hadn't  the  force  to  cast  him  off.  How  Madame 
ever  should  have  liked  him  was  one  of  those  wo- 
man's freaks  that  a  man  mustn't  expect  to  under- 
stand. He  was  no  more  fit  for  her  than  rags  are 
fit  for  a  queen  ;  and  I  could  have  choked  his  head 
off  the  night  he  hugged  me  round  the  neck  and 
told  me  what  a  suicide  she  had  committed.  But 
other  fine  women  are  committing  that  same  folly 


'Sieur  George.  15 

every  day,  only  they  don't  wait  until  they're 
thirty-four  or  five  to  do  it. — '  Why  don't  I  like 
him  ?  '  Well,  for  one  reason,  he's  a  drunkard  !  " 
Here  Kookoo,  whose  imperfect  knowledge  of 
English  prevented  his  intelligent  reception  of  the 
story,  would  laugh  as  if  the  joke  came  in  just  at 
this  point. 

However,  with  all  Monsieur's  prattle,  he  never 
dropped  a  word  about  the  man  he  had  been  before 
he  went  away ;  and  the  great  hair-trunk  puzzle 
was  still  the  same  puzzle,  growing  greater  every 
day. 

Thus  the  two  rooms  had  been  the  scene  of  some 
events  quite  queer,  if  not  really  strange  ;  but  the 
queerest  that  ever  they  presented,  I  guess,  was 
'Sieur  George  coming  in  there  one  day,  crying 
like  a  little  child,  and  bearing  in  his  arms  an  infant 
— a  girl — the  lovely  offspring  of  the  drunkard  whom 
he  so  detested,  and  poor,  robbed,  spirit-broken 
and  now  dead  Madame.  He  took  good  care  of  the 
orphan,  for  orphan  she  was  very  soon.  The  long 
gentleman  was  pulled  out  of  the  Old  Basin  one 
morning,  and  'Sieur  George  identified  the  body  at 
the  Treme  station.  He  never  hired  a  nurse— the 
father  had  sold  the  lady's  maid  quite  out  of  sight ; 
so  he  brought  her  through  all  the  little  ills  and 
around  all  the  sharp  corners  of  baby-life  and  child- 
hood, without  a  human  hand  to  help  him,  until 
one  evening,  having  persistently  shut  his  eyes  to 


1 6  Old  Creole  Days. 

it  for  weeks  and  months,  like  one  trying  to  sleep 
in  the  sunshine,  he  awoke  to  the  realization  that 
she  was  a  woman.  It  was  a  smoky  one  in  No- 
vember, the  first  cool  day  of  autumn.  The  sunset 
was  dimmed  by  the  smoke  of  burning  prairies,  the 
air  was  full  of  the  ashes  of  grass  and  reeds,  ragged 
urchins  were  lugging  home  sticks  of  cordword,  and 
when  a  bit  of  coal  fell  from  a  cart  in  front  of  Koo- 
koo's  old  house,  a  child  was  boxed  half  across  the 
street  and  robbed  of  the  booty  by  a  blanchisseuse 
de  fin  from  over  the  way. 

The  old  man  came  home  quite  steady.  He 
mounted  the  stairs  smartly  without  stopping  to 
rest,  went  with  a  step  unusually  light  and  quiet  to 
his  chamber  and  sat  by  the  window  opening  upon 
the  rusty  balcony. 

It  was  a  small  room,  sadly  changed  from  what  it 
had  been  in  old  times ;  but  then  so  was  'Sieur 
George.  Close  and  dark  it  was,  the  walls  stained 
with  dampness  and  the  ceiling  full  of  bald  places 
that  showed  the  lathing.  The  furniture  was  cheap 
and  meager,  including  conspicuously  the  small, 
curious-looking  hair-trunk.  The  floor  was  of 
wide  slabs  fastened  down  with  spikes,  and  sloping 
up  and  down  in  one  or  two  broad  undulations,  as 
if  they  had  drifted  far  enough  down  the  current 
of  time  to  feel  the  tide-swell. 

However,  the  floor  was  clean,  the  bed  well 
made,  the  cypress  table  in  place,  and  the  musty 


'Sieur  George.  17 

smell  of  the  walls  partly  neutralized  by  a  geranium 
on  the  window-sill. 

He  so  coming  in  and  sitting  down,  an  unseen 
person  called  from  the  room  adjoining  (of  which, 
also,  he  was  still  the  rentee),  to  know  if  he  were 
he,  and  being  answered  in  the  affirmative,  said, 
"  Papa  George,  guess  who  was  here  to-day  ?  " 

"  Kookoo,  for  the  rent?  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  will  not  come  back." 

"  No  ?  why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  you  will  not  pay  him." 

"  No  ?  and  why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  paid  him." 

"  Impossible  !  where  did  you  get  the  money?" 

"  Cannot  guess  ? — Mother  Nativity." 

"  What,  not  for  embroidery  ?  " 

"No?  and  why  not?  Mais  oui  > '" — saying 
which,  and  with  a  pleasant  laugh,  the  speaker  en- 
tered the  room.  She  was  a  girl  of  sixteen  or 
thereabout,  very  beautiful,  with  very  black  hair 
and  eyes.  A  face  and  form  more  entirely  out  of 
place  you  could  not  have  found  in  the  whole  city. 
She  sat  herself  at  his  feet,  and,  with  her  interlocked 
hands  upon  his  knee,  and  her  face,  full  of  childish 
innocence  mingled  with  womanly  wisdom,  turned 
to  his,  appeared  for  a  time  to  take  principal  part 
in  a  conversation  which,  of  course,  could  not  be 
overheard  in  the  corridor  outside. 

Whatever  was  said,  she  presently  rose,  he  opened 


1 8  Old  Creole  Days. 

his  amis,  and  she  sat  on  his  knee  and  kissed  him. 
This  done,  there  was  a  silence,  both  smiling  pen- 
sively and  gazing  out  over  the  rotten  balcony  into 
the  street.  After  a  while  she  started  up,  saying 
something  about  the  change  of  weather,  and,  slip- 
ping away,  thrust  a  match  between  the  bars  of  the 
grate.  The  old  man  turned  about  to  the  fire,  and 
she  from  her  little  room  brought  a  low  sewing-chair 
and  sat  beside  him,  laying  her  head  on  his  knee, 
and  he  stroking  her  brow  with  his  brown  palm. 

And  then,  in  an  altered — a  low,  sad  tone — he  be- 
gan a  monotonous  recital. 

Thus  they  sat,  he  talking  very  steadily  and  she 
listening,  until  all  the  neighborhood  was  wrapped 
in  slumber, — all  the  neighbors,  but  not  Kookoo. 

Kookoo  in  his  old  age  had  become  a  great  eaves- 
dropper ;  his  ear  and  eye  took  turns  at  the  key- 
hole that  night,  for  he  tells  things  that  were  not 
intended  for  outside  hearers.  He  heard  the  girl 
sobbing,  and  the  old  man  saying,  "But  you  must 
go  now.  You  cannot  stay  with  me  safely  or  de- 
cently, much  as  I  wish  it.  The  Lord  only  knows 
how  I'm  to  bear  it,  or  where  you're  to  go  ;  but 
He's  your  Lord,  child,  and  He'll  make  a  place  for 
you.  I  was  your  grandfather's  death  ;  I  frittered 
*your  poor,  dead  mother's  fortune  away  :  let  that  be 
the  last  damage  I  do. 

"  I  have  always  meant  everything  for  the  best," 
he  added  half  in  soliloquy. 


' Sieur  George.  19 

From  all  Kookoo  could  gather,  he  must  have 
been  telling  her  the  very  story  just  recounted. 
She  had  dropped  quite  to  the  floor,  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands,  and  was  saying  between  her  sobs, 
"  I  cannot  go,  Papa  George;  oh,  Papa  George,  I 
cannot  go  !  " 

Just  then  'Sieur  George,  having  kept  a  good  res- 
olution ail  day,  was  encouraged  by  the  orphan's 
pitiful  tones  to  contemplate  the  most  senseless  act 
he  ever  attempted  to  commit.  He  said  to  the  sob- 
bing girl  that  she  was  not  of  his  blood  ;  that  she 
was  nothing  to  him  by  natural  ties  ;  that  his  cove- 
nant was  with  her  grandsire  to  care  for  his  off- 
spring ;  and  though  it  had  been  poorly  kept,  it 
might  be  breaking  it  worse  than  ever  to  turn  her 
out  upon  ever  so  kind  a  world. 

"  I  have  tried  to  be  good  to  you  all  these  years. 
When  I  took  you,  a  wee  little  baby,  I  took  you 
for  better  or  worse.  I  intended  to  do  well  by  you 
all  your  childhood-days,  and  to  do  best  at  last.  I 
thought  surely  we  should  be  living  well  by  this 
time,  and  you  could  choose  from  a  world  full  of 
homes  and  a  world  full  of  friends. 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  missed  it !  "  Here  he  paused 
a  moment  in  meditation,  and  presently  resumed 
with  some  suddenness  : 

"  I  thought  that  education,  far  better  than 
Mother  Nativity  has  given  you,  should  have  af- 
forded your  sweet  charms  a  noble  setting ;  that 


20  Old  Creole  Days. 

good  mothers  and  sisters  would  be  wanting  to 
count  you  into  their  families,  and  that  the  blossom 
of  a  happy  womanhood  would  open  perfect  and  full 
of  sweetness. 

"  I  would  have  given  my  life  for  it.  I  did  give 
it,  such  as  it  was;  but  it  was  a  very  poor  concern, 
I  know — my  life — and  not  enough  to  buy  any  good 
thing. 

"I  have  had  a  thought  of  something,  but  I'm 
afraid  to  tell  it.  It  didn't  come  to  me  to-day 
or  yesterday ;  it  has  beset  me  a  long  time — for 
months." 

The  girl  gazed  into  the  embers,  listening  in- 
tensely. 

"  And  oh  !  dearie,  if  I  could  only  get  you  to 
think  the  same  way,  you  might  stay  with  me 
then." 

"  How  long  ?  "  she  asked,  without  stirring. 

"  Oh,  as  long  as  heaven  should  let  us.  But 
there  is  only  one  chance,"  he  said,  as  it  were  feel- 
ing his  way,  "  only  one  way  for  us  to  stay  together. 
Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  the  old  man  with  a  glance  of 
painful  inquiry. 

"  If  you  could  be my  wife,  dearie  ?" 

She  uttered  a  low,  distressful  cry,  and,  gliding 
swiftly  into  her  room,  for  the  first  time  in  her  young 
life  turned  the  key  between  them. 

And  the  old  man  sat  and  wept. 


'Sieur  George.  21 

Then  Kookoo,  peering  through  the  keyhole,  saw 
that  they  had  been  looking  into  the  little  trunk. 
The  lid  was  up,  but  the  back  was  toward  the  door, 
and  he  could  see  no  more  than  if  it  had  been 
closed. 

He  stooped  and  stared  into  the  aperture  until 
his  dry  old  knees  were  ready  to  crack.  It  seemed 
as  if  'Sieur  George  was  stone,  only  stone  couldn't 
weep  like  that. 

Every  separate  bone  in  his  neck  was  hot  with 
pain.  He  would  have  given  ten  dollars — ten  sweet 
dollars ! — to  have  seen  'Sieur  George  get  up  and 
turn  that  trunk  around. 

There  !     'Sieur  George  rose  up — what  a  face  ! 

He  started  toward  the  bed,  and  as  he  came  to 
the  trunk  he  paused,  looked  at  it,  muttered  some- 
thing about  "ruin,"  and  something  about  "for- 
tune," kicked  the  lid  down  and  threw  himself 
across  the  bed. 

Small  profit  to  old  Kookoo  that  he  went  to  his 
own  couch ;  sleep  was  not  for  the  little  landlord. 
For  well-nigh  half  a  century  he  had  suspected  his 
tenant  of  having  a  treasure  hidden  in  his  house, 
and  to-night  he  had  heard  his  own  admission  that  in 
the  little  trunk  was  a  fortune.  Kookoo  had  never 
felt  so  poor  in  all  his  days  before.  He  felt  a 
Creole's  anger,  too,  that  a  tenant  should  be  the 
holder  of  wealth  while  his  landlord  suffered  pov- 
erty. 


22  Old  Creole  Days. 

And  he  knew  very  well,  too,  did  Kookoo,  what 
the  tenant  would  do.  If  he  did  not  know  what  he 
kept  in  the  trunk,  he  knew  what  he  kept  behind 
it,  and  he  knew  he  would  take  enough  of  it  to-night 
to  make  him  sleep  soundly. 

No  one  would  ever  have  supposed  Kookoo  capa- 
ble of  a  crime.  He  was  too  fearfully  impressed 
with  the  extra-hazardous  risks  of  dishonesty  ;  he 
was  old,  too,  and  weak,  and,  besides  all,  intensely 
a  coward.  Nevertheless,  while  it  was  yet  two  or 
three  hours  before  daybreak,  the  sleep-forsaken 
little  man  arose,  shuffled  into  his  garments,  and  in 
his  stocking-feet  sought  the  corridor  leading  to 
'Sieur  George's  apartment.  The  night,  as  it  often 
does  in  that  region,  had  grown  warm  and  clear; 
the  stars  were  sparkling  like  diamonds  pendent  in 
the  deep  blue  heavens,  and  at  every  window  and 
lattice  and  cranny  the  broad,  bright  moon  poured 
down  its  glittering  beams  upon  the  hoary-headed 
thief,  as  he  crept  along  the  mouldering  galleries 
and  down  the  ancient  corridor  that  led  to  'Sieur 
George's  chamber. 

'Sieur  George's  door,  though  ever  so  slowly 
opened,  protested  with  a  loud  creak.  The  land- 
lord, wet  with  cold  sweat  from  head  to  foot,  and 
shaking  till  the  floor  trembled,  paused  for  several 
minutes,  and  then  entered  the  moon-lit  apartment. 
The  tenant,  lying  as  if  he  had  not  moved,  was  sleep- 
ing heavily.  And  now  the  poor  coward  trembled 


' 'Sieur  George.  23 

so,  that  to  kneel  before  the  trunk,  without  falling, 
he  did  not  know  how.  Twice,  thrice,  he  was  near 
tumbling  headlong.  He  became  as  cold  as  ice. 
But  the  sleeper  stirred,  and  the  thought  of  losing 
his  opportunity  strung  his  nerves  up  in  an  instant. 
He  went  softly  down  upon  his  knees,  laid  his  hands 
upon  the  lid,  lifted  it,  and  let  in  the  intense  moon- 
light. The  trunk  was  full,  full,  crowded  down 
and  running  over  full,  of  the  tickets  of  the  Havana 
Lottery  ! 

A  little  after  daybreak,  Kookoo  from  his  win- 
dow saw  the  orphan,  pausing  on  the  corner.  She 
stood  for  a  moment,  and  then  dove  into  the  dense 
fog  which  had  floated  in  from  the  river,  and  disap- 
peared. He  never  saw  her  again. 

But  her  Lord  is  taking  care  of  her.  Once  only 
she  has  seen  'Sieur  George.  She  had  been  in  the 
belvedere  of  the  house  which  she  now  calls  home, 
looking  down  upon  the  outspread  city.  Far  away 
southward  and  westward  the  great  river  glistened 
in  the  sunset.  Along  its  sweeping  bends  the 
chimneys  of  a  smoking  commerce,  the  magazines 
of  surplus  wealth,  the  gardens  of  the  opulent,  the 
steeples  of  a  hundred  sanctuaries  and  thousands  on 
thousands  of  mansions  and  hovels  covered  the  fer- 
tile birthright  arpents  which  'Sieur  George,  in  his 
fifty  years'  stay,  had  seen  tricked  away  from  dull 
colonial  Esaus  by  their  blue-eyed  brethren  of  the 
North  Nearer  by  she  looked  upon  the  forlornly 


24  Old  Creole  Days. 

silent  region  of  lowly  dwellings,  neglected  by  legis- 
lation and  shunned  by  all  lovers  of  comfort,  that 
once  had  been  the  smiling  fields  of  her  own  grand- 
sire's  broad  plantation  ;  and  but  a  little  way  off, 
trudging  across  the  marshy  commons,  her  eye 
caught  sight  of  'Sieur  George  following  the  sunset 
out  upon  the  prairies  to  find  a  night's  rest  in  the 
high  grass. 

She  turned  at  once,  gathered  the  skirt  of  her 
pink  calico  uniform,  and,  watching  her  steps 
through  her  tears,  descended  the  steep  winding- 
stair  to  her  frequent  kneeling-place  under  the  fra- 
grant candles  of  the  chapel-altar  in  Mother  Nativi- 
ty's asylum. 

'Sieur  George  is  houseless.  He  cannot  find  the 
orphan.  Mother  Nativity  seems  to  know  nothing 
of  her.  If  he  could  find  her  now,  and  could  get 
from  her  the  use  of  ten  dollars  for  but  three  days, 
he  knows  a  combination  which  would  repair  all  the 
past ;  it  could  not  fail,  he— thinks.  But  he  cannot 
find  her,  and  the  letters  he  writes — all  containing 
the  one  scheme — disappear  in  the  mail-box,  and 
there's  an  end. 


'  Tite  Poulette.  25 


TITE   POULETTE. 

KRISTIAN  KOPPIG  was  a  rosy-faced,  beardless 
young  Dutchman.  He  was  one  of  that  army  of 
gentlemen  who,  after  the  purchase  of  Louisiana, 
swarmed  from  all  parts  of  the  commercial  world, 
over  the  mountains  of  Franco-Spanish  exclusive- 
ness,  like  the  Goths  over  the  Pyrenees,  and  settled 
down  in  New  Orleans  to  pick  up  their  fortunes, 
with  the  diligence  of  hungry  pigeons.  He  may 
have  been  a  German  ;  the  distinction  was  too  fine 
.for  Creole  haste  and  disrelish. 

He  made  his  home  in  a  room  with  one  dormer 
window  looking  out,  and  somewhat  down,  upon  a 
building  opposite,  which  still  stands,  flush  with  the 
street,  a  century  old.  Its  big,  round- arched  win- 
dows in  a  long,  second-story  row,  are  walled  up, 
and  two  or  three  from  time  to  time  have  had 
smaller  windows  let  into  them  again,  with  odd  lit- 
tle latticed  peep-holes  in  their  batten  shutters. 
Tlr.s  had  already  been  done  when  Kristian  Koppig 
first  began  to  look  at  them  from  his  solitary  dormer 
window. 

All  the  features  of  the  building  lead  me  to  guess 
that  it  is  a  remnant  of  the  old  Spanish  Barracks, 


26  Old  Creole  Days. 

whose  extensive  structure  fell  by  government  sale 
into  private  hands  a  long  time  ago.  At  the  end 
toward  the  swamp  a  great,  oriental-looking  passage 
is  left,  with  an  arched  entrance,  and  a  pair  of  pon- 
derous wooden  doors.  You  look  at  it,  and  almost 
see  Count  O'Reilly's  artillery  come  bumping  and 
trundling  out,  and  dash  around  into  the  ancient 
Plaza  to  bang  away  at  King  St.  Charles's  birth- 
day. 

I  do  not  know  who  lives  there  now.  You  might 
stand  about  on  the  opposite  banquette  for  weeks 
and  never  find  out.  I  suppose  it  is  a  residence, 
for  it  does  not  look  like  one.  That  is  the  rule  in 
that  region. 

In  the  good  old  times  of  duels,  and  bagatelle- 
clubs,  and  theater-balls,  and  Cayetano's  circus,  Kris- 
tian  Koppig  rooming  as  described,  there  lived  in  the 
portion  of  this  house,  partly  overhanging  the  arch- 
way, a  palish  handsome  woman,  by  the  name — or 
going  by  the  name — of  Madame  John.  You 
would  hardly  have  thought  of  her  being  "  col- 
ored." Though  fading,  she  was  still  of  very  at- 
tractive countenance,  fine,  rather  severe  features, 
nearly  straight  hair  carefully  kept,  and  that  vivid 
black  eye  so  peculiar  to  her  kind.  Her  smile, 
which  came  and  went  with  her  talk,  was  sweet  and 
exceedingly  intelligent ;  and  something  told  you, 
as  you  looked  at  her,  that  she  was  one  who  had 
had  to  learn  a  great  deal  in  this  troublesome  life. 


'  Tite  Poulette.  27 

"  But !  " — the  Creole  lads  in  the  street  would 
say — "  — her  daughter  !  "  and  there  would  be  lift- 
ing of  arms,  wringing  of  fingers,  rolling  of  eyes, 
rounding  of  mouths,  gaspings  and  clasping  of 
hands.  "  So  beautiful,  beautiful,  beautiful ! 
White  ? — white  like  a  water-lily  !  White — like  a 
magnolia  !  " 

Applause  would  follow,  and  invocation  of  all  thf 
saints  to  witness. 

And  she  could  sing. 

"Sing?"  (disdainfully) — "if  a  mocking-bird 
can  sing  !  Ha  !  " 

They  could  not  tell  just  how  old  she  was  ;  they 
"  would  give  her  about  seventeen." 

Mother  and  daughter  were  very  fond.  The 
neighbors  could  hear  them  call  each  other  pet 
names,  and  see  them  sitting  together,  sewing,  talk- 
ing happily  to  each  other  in  the  unceasing  French 
way,  and  see  them  go  out  and  come  in  together 
on  their  little  tasks  and  errands.  "  Tite  Pou- 
lette,"  the  daughter  was  called  ;  she  never  went 
out  alone. 

And  who  was  this  Madame  John  ? 

"  Why,  you  know  ! — she  was  " — said  the  wig- 
maker  at  the  corner  to  Kristian  Koppig — "  I'll  tell 
you.  You  know  ? — she  was  " — and  the  rest  atom- 
ized off  in  a  rasping  whisper.  She  was  the  best 
yellow-fever  nurse  in  a  thousand  yards  round  ;  but 
that  is  not  what  the  \vig  maker  said. 


28  Old  Creole  Days. 

A  block  nearer  the  river  stands  a  house  alto- 
gether different  from  the  remnant  of  old  barracks. 
It  is  of  frame,  with  a  deep  front  gallery  over  which 
the  roof  extends.  It  has  become  a  den  of  Italians, 
who  sell  fuel  by  daylight,  and  by  night  are  up  to 
no  telling  what  extent  of  deviltry.  This  was  once 
the  home  of  a  gay  gentleman,  whose  first  name 
happened  to  be  John.  He  was  a  member  of  the 
Good  Children  Social  Club.  As  his  parents  lived 
with  him,  his  wife  would,  according  to  custom, 
have  been  called  Madame  John  ;  but  he  had  no 
wife.  His  father  died,  then  his  mother  ;  last  of 
all,  himself.  As  he  is  about  to  be  off,  in  comes 
Madame  John,  with  'Tite  Poulette,  then  an  infant, 
on  her  arm. 

"  Zalli,"  said  he,  "  I  am  going." 

She  bowed  her  head,  and  wept. 

"  You  have  been  very  faithful  to  me,  Zalli." 

She  wept  on. 

"Nobody  to  take  care  of  you  now,  Zalli." 

Zalli  only  went  on  weeping. 

"  I  want  to  give  you  this  house,  Zalli  ;  it  is  for 
you  and  the  little  one." 

An  hour  after,  amid  the  sobs  of  Madame  John, 
she  and  the  "  little  one  "  inherited  the  house,  such 
as  it  was.  With  the  fatal  caution  which  charac- 
terizes ignorance,  she  sold  the  property  and  placed 
the  proceeds  in  a  bank,  which  made  haste  to  fail. 
She  put  on  widow's  weeds,  and  wore  them  still 


'  Tite  Poulette.  29 

when  'Tite  Poulette  "  had  seventeen,"  as  the  fran- 
tic lads  would  say. 

How  they  did  chatter  over  her.  Quiet  Kristian 
Koppig  had  never  seen  the  like.  He  wrote  to  his 
mother,  and  told  her  so.  A  pretty  fellow  at  the 
corner  would  suddenly  double  himself  up  with 
beckoning  to  a  knot  of  chums  ;  these  would  hasten 
up  ;  recruits  would  come  in  from  two  or  three  other 
directions  ;  as  they  reached  the  corner  their  coun- 
tenances would  quickly  assume  a  genteel  severity, 
and  presently,  with  her  mother,  'Tite  Poulette  would 
pass — tall,  straight,  lithe,  her  great  black  eyes 
made  tender  by  their  sweeping  lashes,  the  faintest 
tint  of  color  in  her  Southern  cheek,  her  form  all 
grace,  her  carriage  a  wonder  of  simple  dignity. 

The  instant  she  was  gone  every  tongue  was  let 
slip  on  the  marvel  of  her  beauty ;  but,  though 
theirs  were  only  the  loose  New  Orleans  morals  of 
over  fifty  years  ago,  their  unleashed  tongues  never 
had  attempted  any  greater  liberty  than  to  take  up 
the  pet  name,  'Tite  Poulette.  And  yet  the  mother 
was  soon  to  be,  as  we  shall  discover,  a  paid  dancer 
at  the  Salle  de  Condd. 

To  Zalli,  of  course,  as  to  all  "  quadroon  ladies," 
the  festivities  of  the  Conde'  street  ball-room  were 
familiar  of  old.  There,  in  the  happy  days  when 
dear  Monsieur  John  was  young,  and  the  eighteenth 
century  old,  she  had  often  repaired  under  guard 
of  her  mother — dead  now,  alas  ! — and  Monsieur 


30  Old  Creole  Days. 

John  would  slip  away  from  the  dull  play  and  dry 
society  of  Theatre  d'Orleans,  and  come  around 
with  his  crowd  of  elegant  friends ;  and  through 
the  long  sweet  hours  of  the  ball  she  had  danced, 
and  laughed,  and  coquetted  under  her  satin  mask, 
even  to  the  baffling  and  tormenting  of  that  prince 
of  gentlemen,  dear  Monsieur  John  himself.  No 
man  of  questionable  blood  dare  set  his  foot  within 
the  door.  Many  noble  gentlemen  were  pleased  to 

dance  with   her.     Colonel   De  and    General 

La  :  city  councilmen   and   officers  from  the 

Government  House.  There  were  no  paid  dancers 
then.  Everything  was  decorously  conducted  in- 
deed !  Every  girl's  mother  was  there,  and  the 
more  discreet  always  left  before  there  was  too 
much  drinking.  Yes,  it  was  gay,  gay  ! — but 
sometimes  dangerous.  Ha  !  more  times  than  a 
few  had  Monsieur  John  knocked  down  some  long- 
haired and  long-knifed  rowdy,  and  kicked  the 
breath  out  of  him  for  looking  saucily  at  her  ;  but 
that  was  like  him,  he  was  so  brave  and  kind  ; — 
and  he  is  gone  ! 

There  was  no  room  for  widow's  weeds  there. 
So  when  she  put  these  on,  her  glittering  eyes  never 
again  looked  through  her  pink  and  white  mask, 
and  she  was  glad  of  it  ;  for  never,  never  in  her  life 
had  they  so  looked  for  anybody  but  her  dear  Mon- 
sieur John,  and  now  he  was  in  heaven — so  the 
priest  said — and  she  was  a  sick-nurse. 


'  Tite  Poulette.  31 

Living  was  hard  work  ;  and,  as  Madame  John 
had  been  brought  up  tenderly,  and  had  done  what 
she  could  to  rear  her  daughter  in  the  same  mis- 
taken way,  with,  of  course,  no  more  education 
than  the  ladies  in  society  got,  they  knew  nothing 
beyond  a  little  music  and  embroidery.  They 
struggled  as  they  could,  faintly;  now  giving  a  few 
private  dancing  lessons,  now  dressing  hair,  but 
ever  beat  back  by  the  steady  detestation  of  their 
imperious  patronesses  ;  and,  by  and  by,  for  want 
of  that  priceless  worldly  grace  known  among  the 
flippant  as  "  money-sense,"  these  two  poor  chil- 
dren, born  of  misfortune  and  the  complacent  bad- 
ness of  the  times,  began  to  be  in  want. 

Kristian  Koppig  noticed  from  his  dormer  win- 
dow one  day  a  man  standing  at  the  big  archway 
opposite,  and  clanking  the  brass  knocker  on  the 
wicket  that  was  in  one  of  the  doors.  He  was  a 
smooth  man,  with  his  hair  parted  in  the  middle, 
and  his  cigarette  poised  on  a  tiny  gold  holder. 
He  waited  a  moment,  politely  cursed  the  dust, 
knocked  again,  threw  his  slender  sword-cane  under 
his  arm,  and  wiped  the  inside  of  his  hat  with  his 
handkerchief. 

Madame  John  held  a  parley  with  him  at  the 
wicket.  'Tite  Poulette  was  nowhere  seen.  He 
stood  at  the  gate  while  Madame  John  went  up- 
stairs. Kristian  Koppig  knew  him.  He  knew 
him  as  one  knows  a  snake.  He  was  the  manager 


32  Old  Creole  Days. 

of  the  Salle  de  Conde".  Presently  Madame  John 
returned  with  a  little  bundle,  and  they  hurried  off 
together. 

And  now  what  did  this  mean  ?  Why,  by  any 
one  of  ordinary  acuteness  the  matter  was  easily 
understood,  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  Kristian  Koppig 
was  a  trifle  dull,  and  got  the  idea  at  once  that 
some  damage  was  being  planned  against  'Tite 
Poulette.  It  made  the  gentle  Dutchman  miser- 
able not  to  be  minding  his  own  business,  and 
yet 

"  But  the  woman  certainly  will  not  attempt" — 
said  he  to  himself — "no,  no!  she  cannot."  Not 
being  able  to  guess  what  he  meant,  I  cannot  say 
whether  she  could  or  not.  I  know  that  next  day 
Kristian  Koppig,  glancing  eagerly  over  the  "Ami 
des  Lois"  read  an  advertisement  which  he  had 
always  before  skipped  with  a  frown.  It  was 
headed,  "  Salle  de  CondS,"  and,  being  interpreted, 
signified  that  a  new  dance  was  to  be  introduced, 
the  Danse  de  Chinois,  and  that  a  young  lady  would 
follow  it  with  the  famous  "  Danse  du  Shawl." 

It  was  the  Sabbath.  The  young  man  watched 
the  opposite  window  steadily  and  painfully  from 
early  in  the  afternoon  until  the  moon  shone 
bright ;  and  from  the  time  the  moon  shone  bright 
until  Madame  John  ! — joy  ! — Madame  John  !  and 
not  'Tite  Poulette,  stepped  through  the  wicket, 
much  dressed  and  well  muffled,  and  hurried  off 


'  Tite  Poulette.  33 

toward  the  rue  Condt.  Madame  John  was  the 
"young  lady;  "  and  the  young  man's  mind,  glad 
to  return  to  its  own  unimpassioned  affairs,  relapsed 
into  quietude. 

Madame  John  danced  beautifully.  •  It  had  to  be 
done.  It  brought  some  pay,  and  pay  was  bread  ; 
and  every  Sunday  evening,  with  a  touch  here  and 
there  of  paint  and  powder,  the  mother  danced  the 
dance  of  the  shawl,  the  daughter  remaining  at 
home  alone. 

Kristian  Koppig,  simple,  slow-thinking  young 
Dutchman,  never  noticing  that  he  staid  at  home 
with  his  window  darkened  for  the  very  purpose, 
would  see  her  come  to  her  window  and  look  out 
with  a  little  wild,  alarmed  look  in  her  magnificent 
eyes,  and  go  and  come  again,  and  again,  until  the 
mother,  like  a  storm-driven  bird,  came  panting 
home. 

Two  or  three  months  went  by. 

One  night,  on  the  mother's  return,  Kristian  Kop- 
pig coming  to  his  room  nearly  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, there  was  much  earnest  conversation,  which 
he  could  see,  but  not  hear. 

"  'Tite  Poulette,"  said  Madame  John,  "you  are 
seventeen." 
^"True,  Maman." 

"  Ah  !  my  child,  I  see  not  how  you  are  to  meet 
the  future."  The  voice  trembled  plaintively. 

"  But  how,  Maman  ?  " 
3 


34  Old  Creole  Days. 

"Ah!  you  are  not  like  others;  no  fortune,  no 
pleasure,  no  friend." 

"  Maman!" 

"  No,  no  ; — I  thank  God  for  it ;  I  am  glad  you 
are  not ;  but  you  will  be  lonely,  lonely,  all  your 
poor  life  long.  There  is  no  place  in  this  world  for 
us  poor  women.  I  wish  that  we  were  either  white 
or  black  !  " — and  the  tears,  two  "  shining  ones," 
stood  in  the  poor  quadroon's  eyes. 

The  daughter  stood  up,  her  eyes  flashing. 

"  God  made  us,  Maman,"  she  said  with  a  gen- 
tle, but  stately  smile. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  the  mother,  her  keen  glance  dart- 
ing through  her  tears,  "  Sin  made  me,  yes." 

"  No,"  said  'Tite  Poulette,  "  God  made  us. 
He  made  us  just  as  we  are  ;  not  more  white,  not 
more  black." 

"  He  made  you,  truly  !  "  said  Zalli.  "  You  are 
so  beautiful ;  I  believe  it  well."  She  reached  and 
drew  the  fair  form  to  a  kneeling  posture.  "My 
sweet,  white  daughter  !  " 

Now  the  tears  were  in  the  girl's  eyes.  "  And 
could  I  be  whiter  than  I  am  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  1  'Tite  Poulette,"  cried  the  other; 
"  but  if  we  were  only  real  wliite  ! — both  of  us  ;  so 
that  some  gentleman  might  come  to  see  me  and 
say  'Madame  John,  I  want  your  pretty  little  chick. 
She  is  so  beautiful.  I  want  to  take  her  home. 
She  is  so  good — I  want  her  to  be  my  wife.'  Oh, 


'  Tite  Poulette.  35 

my  child,  my  child,  to  see  that  I  would  give  my 
life — I  would  give  my  soul !  Only  you  should 
take  me  along  to  be  your  servant.  I  walked  be- 
hind two  young  men  to-night ;  they  were  coming 
home  from  their  office  ;  presently  they  began  to 
talk  about  you." 

'Tite  Poulette's  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"  No,  my  child,  they  spoke  only  the  best  things. 
One  laughed  a  little  at  times  and  kept  saying  "  Be- 
ware !  "  but  the  other — I  prayed  the  Virgin  to  bless 
him,  he  spoke  such  kind  and  noble  words.  Such 
gentle  pity  ;  such  a  holy  heart !  '  May  God  de- 
fend her,'  he  said,  cherie  ;  he  said,  '  May  God  de- 
fend her,  for  I  see  no  help  for  her.'  The  other  one 
laughed  and  left  him.  He  stopped  in  the  door 
right  across  the  street.  Ah,  my  child,  do  you 
blush?  Is  that  something  to  bring  the  rose  to 
your  cheek?  Many  fine  gentlemen  at  the  ball 
ask  me  often,  '  How  is  your  daughter,  Madame 
John?'" 

The  daughter's  face  was  thrown  into  the  mother's 
lap,  not  so  well  satisfied,  now,  with  God's  handi- 
work. Ah,  how  she  wept  !  Sob,  sob,  sob  ;  gasps 
and  sighs  and  stifled  ejaculations,  her  small  right 
hand  clenched  and  beating  on  her  mother's  knee ; 
and  the  mother  weeping  over  her. 

Kristian  Koppig  shut  his  window.  Nothing 
but  a  generous  heart  and  a  Dutchman's  phlegm 
could  have  done  so  at  that  moment.  And  even 


36  Old  Creole  Days. 

thou,  Kristian  Koppig  ! for  the  window  closed 

very  slowly. 

•He  wrote  to  his  mother,  thus  : 

"  In  this  wicked  city,  I  see  none  so  fair  as  the 
poor  girl  who  lives  opposite  me,  and  who,  alas  1 
though  so  fair,  is  one  of  those  whom  the  taint  of 
caste  has  cursed.  She  lives  a  lonely,  innocent  life 
in  the  midst  of  corruption,  like  the  lilies  I  find  here 
in  the  marshes,  and  I  have  great  pity  for  her. 
'  God  defend  her,'  I  said  to-night  to  a  fellow  clerk, 
'  I  see  no  help  for  her.'  I  know  there  is  a  natural, 
and  I  think  proper,  horror  of  mixed  blood  (excuse 
the  mention,  sweet  mother),  and  I  feel  it,  too  ;  and 
yet  if  she  were  in  Holland  to-day,  not  one  of  a 
hundred  suitors  would  detect  the  hidden  blemish." 

In  such  strain  this  young  man  wrote  on  trying 
to  demonstrate  the  utter  impossibility  of  his  ever 
loving  the  lovable  unfortunate,  until  the  midnight 
tolling  of  the  cathedral  clock  sent  him  to  bed. 

About  the  same  hour  Zalli  and  'Tite  Poulette 
were  kissing  good-night. 

"  'Tite  Poulette,  I  want  you  to  promise  me  one 
thing." 

"Well,  Maman?" 

"  If  any  gentleman  should  ever  love  you  and 
ask  you  to  marry, — not  knowing,  you  know, — • 
promise  me  you  will  not  tell  him  you  are  not 
white." 

"  It  can  never  be,"  said  'Tite  Poulette. 


'  Tite  Poulette.  37 

"  But  if  it  should,"  said  Madame  John  plead- 
ingly. 

"And  break  the  law?"  asked  Tite  Poulette, 
impatiently. 

"  But  the  law  is  unjust,"  said  the  mother. 

"But  it  is  the  law!" 

"  But  you  will  not,  dearie,  will  you  ?  " 

"  I  would  surely  tell  him  !  "  said  the  daughter. 

When  Zalli,  for  some  cause,  went  next  morning 
to  the  window,  she  started. 

"  'Tite  Poulette  !  " — she  called  softly  without 
moving.  The  daughter  came.  The  young  man, 
whose  idea  of  propriety  had  actuated  him  to  this 
display,  was  sitting  in  the  dormer  window,  read- 
ing. Mother  and  daughter  bent  a  steady  gaze  at 
each  other.  It  meant  in  French,  "If  he  saw  us 
last  night !  — " 

"Ah!  dear,"  said  the  mother,  her  face  beam- 
ing with  fun, 

"  What  can  it  be,  Maman  ?  " 

"  He  speaks — oh  !  ha,  ha  ! — he  speaks — such 
miserable  French  !  " 

It  came  to  pass  one  morning  at  early  dawn  that 
Zalli  and  'Tite  Poulette,  going  to  mass,  passed  a 
cafe,  just  as — who  should  be  coming  out  but  Mon- 
sieur, the  manager  of  the  Salle  de  Conde.  He  had 
not  yet  gone  to  bed.  Monsieur  was  astonished. 
He  had  a  Frenchman's  eye  for  the  beautiful,  and 
certainly  there  the  beautiful  was.  He  had  heard 


38  Old  Creole  Days. 

of  Madame  John's  daughter,  and  had  hoped  once 
to  see  her,  but  did  not ;  but  could  this  be  she  ? 

They  disappeared  within  the  cathedral.  A 
sudden  pang  of  piety  moved  him  ;  he  followed. 
JTite  Poulette  was  already  kneeling  in  the  aisle. 
Zalli,  still  in  the  vestibule,  was  just  taking  her 
hand  from  the  font  of  holy-water. 

"  Madame  John,"  whispered  the  manager. 

She  courtesied. 

"  Madame  John,  that  young  lady — is  she  your 
daughter  ?  " 

"  She — she — is  my  daughter,"  said  Zalli,  with 
somewhat  of  alarm  in  her  face,  which  the  manager 
misinterpreted. 

"  I  think  not,  Madame  John."  He  shook  his 
head,  smiling  as  one  too  wise  to  be  fooled. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  she  is  my  daughter." 

"  O  no,  Madame  John,  it  is  only  make-believe, 
I  think." 

"  I  swear  she  is,  Monsieur  de  la  Rue." 

"Is  that  possible?"  pretending  to  waver,  but 
convinced  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  by  Zalli's  alarm, 
that  she  was  lying.  "  But  how?  Why  does  she 
not  come  to  our  ball-room  with  you  ?  " 

Zalli,  trying  to  get  away  from  him,  shrugged 
and  smiled.  "Each  to  his  taste,  Monsieur;  it 
pleases  her  not." 

She  was  escaping,  but  he  followed  one  step 
more.  "I  shall  come  to  see  you,  Madame  John.' 


'Ttte  Poulette.  39 

She  whirled  and  attacked  him  with  her  eyes. 
"  Monsieur  must  not  give  himself  the  trouble  !  " 
she  said,  the  eyes  at  the  same  time  saying,  "  Dare 
to  come  !  "  She  turned  again,  and  knelt  to  her  de- 
votions. The  manager  dipped  in  the  font,  crossed 
himself,  and  departed. 

Several  weeks  went  by,  and  M.  de  la  Rue  had 
not  accepted  the  fierce  challenge  of  Madame 
John's  eyes.  One  or  two  Sunday  nights  she  had 
succeeded  in  avoiding  him,  though  fulfilling  her 
engagement  in  the  Salle  ;  but  by  and  by  pay-day, 
— a  Saturday, — came  round,  and  though  the  pay 
was  ready,  she  was  loth  to  go  up  to  Monsieur's 
little  office. 

It  was  an  afternoon  in  May.  Madame  John 
came  in  and,  with  a  sigh,  sank  into  a  chair.  Her 
eyes  were  wet. 

"  Did  you  go,  dear  mother  ?  "  asked  'Tite  Pou- 
lette. 

"I  could  not,"  she  answered,  dropping  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

"  Maman,  he  has  seen  me  at  the  window  ! " 

"  While  I  was  gone  ?  "  cried  the  mother. 

"  He  passed  on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  He 
looked  up  purposely,  and  saw  me."  The  speaker's 
cheeks  were  burning  red. 

Zalli  wrung  her  hands. 

"  It  is  nothing,  mother  ;   do  not  go  near  him." 

"  But  the  pay,  my  child." 


40  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  The  pay  matters  not." 

"  But  he  will  bring  it  here ;  he  wants  the 
chance." 

That  was  the  trouble,  sure  enough. 

About  this  time  Kristian  Koppig  lost  his  posi- 
tion in  the  German  importing  house  where,  he  had 
fondly  told  his  mother,  he  was  indispensable. 
"  Summer  was  coming  on,"  the  senior  said,  "  and 
you  see  our  young  men  are  almost  idle.  Yes,  our 
engagement  was  for  a  year,  but  ah — we  could  not 
foresee — "  etc.,  etc.,  "  besides,"  (attempting  a  part- 
ing flattery)  "  your  father  is  a  rich  gentleman  and 
you  can  afford  to  take  the  summer  easy.  If  we 
can  ever  be  of  any  service  to  you  " — etc.,  etc. 

So  the  young  Dutchman  spent  the  afternoons 
at  his  dormer  window  reading  and  glancing  down 
at  the  little  casement  opposite,  where  a  small, 
rude  shelf  had  lately  been  put  out,  holding  a  row 
of  cigar  boxes  with  wretched  little  botanical  speci- 
mens in  them  trying  to  die.  'Tite  Poulette  was 
their  gardener ;  and  it  was  odd  to  see, — dry 
weather  or  wet, — how  many  waterings  per  day 
those  plants  could  take.  She  never  looked  up 
from  her  task  ;  but  I  know  she  performed  it  with 
that  unacknowledged  pleasure  which  all  girls  love 
and  deny,  that  of  being  looked  upon  by  noble 
eyes. 

On  this  particular  Saturday  afternoon  in  May, 
Kristian  Koppig  had  been  witness  of  the  distress 


'  Tite  Poulette.  41 

ful  scene  over  the  way.  It  occurred  to  'Tite  Pou- 
lette that  such  might  be  the  case,  and  she  stepped 
to  the  casement  to  shut  it.  As  she  did  so,  the 
marvelous  delicacy  of  Kristian  Koppig  moved  him 
to  draw  in  one  of  his  shutters.  Both  young  heads 
came  out  at  one  moment,  while  at  the  same  in- 
stant  

"  Rap,  rap,  rap,  rap,  rap  !  "  clanked  the  knock- 
er on  the  wicket.  The  black  eyes  of  the  maiden 
and  the  blue  over  the  way,  from  looking  into  each 
other  for  the  first  time  in  life,  glanced  down  to  the 
arched  doorway  upon  Monsieur  the  manager. 
Then  the  black  eyes  disappeared  within,  and  Kris- 
tian Koppig  thought  again,  and  re-opening  his 
shutter,  stood  up  at  the  window  prepared  to  be- 
come a  bold  spectator  of  what  might  follow. 

But  for  a  moment  nothing  followed. 

"  Trouble  over  there,"  thought  the  rosy  Dutch 
man,  and   waited.     The  manager  waited  too,  rub- 
bing his  hat  and  brushing  his  clothes  with  the  tips 
of  his  kidded  fingers. 

"  They  do  not  wish  to  see  him,"  slowly  con- 
cluded the  spectator. 

"  Rap,  rap,  rap,  rap,  rap  !v  quoth  the  knocker, 
and  M.  de  la  Rue  looked  up  around  at  the  windows 
opposite  and  noticed  the  handsome  young  Dutch- 
man looking  at  him. 

"  Dutch  ! "  said  the  manager  softly,  between  his 
teeth. 


42  •  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  He  is  staring  at  me,"  said  Kristian  Koppig  to 
himself; — "  but  then  I  am  staring  at  him,  which 
accounts  for  it." 

A  long  pause,  and  then  another  long  rapping. 

"  They  want  him  to  go  away,"  thought  Koppig. 

"  Knock  hard  !  "  suggested  a  street  youngster, 
standing  by. 

"  Rap,  rap "  The  manager  had  no  sooner 

re-commenced  than  several  neighbors  looked  out 
of  doors  and  windows. 

"  Very  bad,"  thought  our  Dutchman  ;  "  some- 
body should  make  him  go  off.  I  wonder  what 
they  will  do." 

The  manager  stepped  into  the  street,  looked  up 
at  the  closed  window,  returned  to  the  knocker,  and 
stood  with  it  in  his  hand. 

"They  are  all  gone  out,  Monsieur,"  said  the 
street-youngster. 

"  You  lie  !  "  said  the  cynosure  of  neighboring 
eyes. 

"  Ah  !  "  thought  Kristian  Koppig  ;  "  I  will  go 

down  and  ask  him "  Here  his  thoughts  lost 

outline  ;  he  was  only  convinced  that  he  had  some- 
what to  say  to  him,  and  turned  to  go  down-stairs. 
In  going  he  became  a  little  vexed  with  himself  be- 
cause he  could  not  help  hurrying.  He  noticed, 
too,  that  his  arm  holding  the  stair-rail  trembled  in 
a  silly  way,  whereas  he  was  perfectly  calm.  Pre- 
cisely as  he  reached  the  street-door  the  manage? 


'  Tite  Poulette.  43 

raised  the  knocker ;  but  the  latch  clicked  and  the 
wicket  was  drawn  sightly  ajar. 

Inside  could  just  be  descried  Madame  John. 
The  manager  bowed,  smiled,  talked,  talked  on,  held 
money  in  his  hand,  bowed,  smiled,  talked  on, 
flourished  the  money,  smiled,  bowed,  talked  on 
and  plainly  persisted  in  some  intention  to  which 
Madame  John  was  steadfastly  opposed. 

The  window  above,  too, — it  was  Kristian  Kop- 
pig  who  noticed  that, — opened  a  wee  bit,  like  the 
shell  of  a  terrapin.  Presently  the  manager  lifted 
his  foot  and  put  forward  an  arm,  as  though  he 
would  enter  the  gate  by  pushing,  but  as  quick  as 
gunpowder  it  clapped — in  his  face  ! 

You  could  hear  the  fleeing  feet  of  Zalli  pound- 
ing up  the  staircase. 

As  the  panting  mother  re-entered  her  room, 
"See,  Maman,"  said  'Tite  Poulette,  peeping  at 
the  window,  "  the  young  gentleman  from  over  the 
way  has  crossed  !  " 

"  Holy  Mary  bless  him  !  "  said  the  mother. 

"  I  will  go  over,"  thought  Kristian  Koppig, 
"  and  ask  him  kindly  if  he  is  not  making  a  mis- 
take." 

"  What  are  they  doing,  dear?  "  asked  the  moth- 
er, with  clasped  hands. 

"  They  are  talking  ;  the  young  man  is  tranquil, 
but  'Sieur  de  la  Rue  is  very  angry,"  whispered  the 
daughter  ;  and  just  then — pang  !  came  a  sharp, 


44  Old  Creole  Days. 

keen  sound  rattling  up  the  walls  on  either  side  of 
the  narrow  way,  and  "Aha!"  and  laughter  and 
clapping  of  female  hands  from  two  or  three  win- 
dows. 

"  Oh  !  what  a  slap ! "  cried  the  girl,  half  in 
fright,  half  in  glee,  jerking  herself  back  from  the 
casement  simultaneously  with  the  report.  But  the 
"  ahas,"  and  laughter,  and  clapping  of  feminine 
hands,  which  still  continued,  came  from  another 
cause.  'Tite  Poulette's  rapid  action  had  struck  the 
slender  cord  that  held  up  an  end  of  her  hanging 
garden,  and  the  whole  rank  of  cigar-boxes  slid 
from  their  place,  turned  gracefully  over  as  they  shot 
through  the  air,  and  emptied  themselves  plump 
upon  the  head  of  the  slapped  manager.  Breath- 
less, dirty,  pale  as  whitewash,  he  gasped  a  threat 
to  be  heard  from  again,  and,  getting  round  the 
corner  as  quick  as  he  could  walk,  left  Kristian 
Koppig,  standing  motionless,  the  most  astonished 
man  in  that  street. 

"  Kristian  Koppig,  Kristian  Koppig, "said  Great- 
heart  to  himself,  slowly  dragging  upstairs,  "  what 
a  mischief  you  have  done.  One  poor  woman  cer- 
tainly to  be  robbed  of  her  bitter  wages,  and  an- 
other— so  lovely  ! — put  to  the  burning  shame  of 
being  the  subject  of  a  street  brawl !  What  will 
this  silly  neighborhood  say  ?  '  Has  the  gentleman 
a  heart  as  well  as  a  hand  ?  '  '  Is  it  jealousy  ?  '  ' 
There  he  paused,  afraid  himself  to  answer  the  sup- 


'  Tite  Poulette.  45 

posed  query ;  and  then — "Oh!  Kristian  Koppig, 
you  have  been  such  a  dunce!"  "And  I  cannot 
apologize  to  them.  Who  in  this  street  would  carry 
my  note,  and  not  wink  and  grin  over  it  with  low 
surmises  ?  I  cannot  even  make  restitution.  Mon- 
ey ?  They  would  not  dare  receive  it.  Oh  !  Kris- 
tian Koppig,  why  did  you  not  mind  your  own 
business  ?  Is  she  anything  to  you  ?  Do  you  love 
her  ?  Of  course  not !  Oh  ! — such  a  dunce  !  " 

The  reader  will  eagerly  admit  that  however  faul- 
ty this  young  man's  course  of  reasoning,  his  con- 
clusion was  correct.  For  mark  what  he  did. 

He  went  to  his  room,  which  was  already  grow- 
ing dark,  shut  his  window,  lighted  his  big  Dutch 
lamp,  and  sat  down  to  write.  "Something  must 
be  done,"  said  he  aloud,  taking  up  his  pen;  "I 
will  be  calm  and  cool ;  I  will  be  distant  and  brief; 
but — I  shall  have  to  be  kind  or  I  may  offend.  Ah  ! 
I  shall  have  to  write  in  French  ;  I  forgot  that  ;  I 
write  it  so  poorly,  dunce  that  I  am,  when  all  my 
brothers  and  sisters  speak  it  so  well."  He  got  out 
his  French  dictionary.  Two  hours  slipped  by. 
He  made  a  new  pen,  washed  and  refilled  his  ink- 
stand, mended  his  "  abominable  "  chair,  and  after 
two  hours  more  made  another  attempt,  and  an- 
other failure.  "  My  head  aches,"  said  he,  and  lay 
down  on  his  couch,  the  better  to  frame  his  phrases. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  Sabbath  sunlight. 
The  bells  of  the  Cathedral  and  the  Ursulines' 


46  Old  Creole  Days. 

chapel  were  ringing  for  high  mass,  and  a  mocking 
bird,  perching  on  a  chimney-top  above  Madame 
John's  rooms,  was  caroling,  whistling,  mewing, 
chirping,  screaming,  and  trilling  with  the  ecstasy 
of  a  whole  May  in  his  throat.  "  Oh  !  sleepy  Kris- 
tian  Koppig,"  was  the  young  man's  first  thought, 
"  — such  a  dunce  !  " 

Madame  John  and  daughter  did  not  go  to  mass. 
The  morning  wore  away,  and  their  casement  re- 
mained closed.  "  They  are  offended,"  said  Kris- 
tian  Koppig,  leaving  the  house,  and  wandering  up 
to  the  little  Protestant  affair  known  as  Christ 
Church. 

"  No,  possibly  they  are  not,"  he  said,  returning 
and  finding  the  shutters  thrown  back. 

By  a  sad  accident,  which  mortified  him  ex- 
tremely, he  happened  to  see,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
— hardly  conscious  that  he  was  looking  across  the 
street, — that  Madame  John  was  — dressing.  Could 
it  be  that  she  was  going  to  the  Salle  de  Condt? 
He  rushed  to  his  table,  and  began  to  write. 

He  had  guessed  aright.  The  wages  were  too 
precious  to  be  lost.  The  manager  had  written  her 
a  note.  He  begged  to  assure  her  that  he  was  a 
gentleman  of  the  clearest  cut.  If  he* had  made  a 
mistake  the  previous  afternoon,  he  was  glad  no 
unfortunate  result  had  followed  except  his  having 
been  assaulted  by  a  ruffian  ;  that  the  Danse  du 
Shawl  was  promised  in  his  advertisement,  and  he 


'  Tile  Poulelle.  47 

hoped  Madame  John  (whose  wages  were  in  hand 
waiting  for  her)  would  not  fail  to  assist  as  usual. 
Lastly,  and  delicately  put,  he  expressed  his  con- 
viction that  Mademoiselle  was  wise  and  discreet  in 
declining  to  entertain  gentlemen  at  her  home. 

So,  against  much  beseeching  on  the  part  of  'Tite 
Poulette,  Madame  John  was  going  to  the  ball- 
room. "  Maybe  I  can  discover  what  'Sieur  de  la 
Rue  is  planning  against  Monsieur  over  the  way," 
she  said,  knowing  certainly  the  slap  would  not  be 
forgiven  ;  and  the  daughter,  though  tremblingly, 
at  once  withdrew  her  objections. 

The  heavy  young  Dutchman,  now  thoroughly 
electrified,  was  writing  like  mad.  He  wrote  and 
tore  up,  wrote  and  tore  up,  lighted  his  lamp,  started 
again,  and  at  last  signed  his  name.  A  letter  by  a 
Dutchman  in  French  ! — what  can  be  made  of  it  in 
English  ?  We  will  see 

"  MADAME  AND  MADEMOISELLE  : 

"  A  stranger,  seeking  not  to  be  acquainted,  but  seeing  and  admir- 
ing all  days  the  goodness  and  high  honor,  begs  to  be  pardoned  of 
them  for  the  mistakes,  alas  !  of  yesterday,  and  to  make  reparation 
and  satisfaction  in  destroying  the  ornaments  of  the  window,  as  well 
as  the  loss  of  compensation  from  Monsieur  the  manager,  with  the 
enclosed  bill  of  the  Banque  de  la  Louisiane  for  fifty  dollars  ($50) . 
And,  hoping  they  will  seeing  what  he  is  meaning,  remains,  respect- 
fully, 

"  KRISTIAN  KOPPIG. 

"  P.  S.— Madame  must  not  go  to  the  ball." 

He  must   bear  the    missive  himself.     He  must 


48  Old  Creole  Days. 

speak  in  French.  What  should  the  words  be.  A 
moment  of  study — he  has  it,  and  is  off  down  the 
long  three-story  stairway.  At  the  same  moment 
Madame  John  stepped  from  the  wicket,  and  glided 
off  to  the  Salle  de  Conde,  a  trifle  late. 

"  I  shall  see  Madame  John,  of  course,"  thought 
the  young  man,  crushing  a  hope,  and  rattled  the 
knocker.  'Tite  Poulette  sprang  up  from  praying 
for  her  mother's  safety.  "  What  has  she  forgot- 
ten?" she  asked  herself,  and  hastened  down.  The 
wicket  opened.  The  two  innocents  were  stunned. 

"Aw  —  aw — "  said  the  pretty  Dutchman, 
"  aw — ,"  blurted  out  something  in  virgin  Dutch, 
.  .  handed  her  the  letter,  and  hurried  down  street. 

"  Alas  !  what  have  I  done  ?  "  said  the  poor  girl, 
bending  over  her  candle,  and  bursting  into  tears 
that  fell  on  the  unopened  letter.  "  And  what  shall 
I  do  ?  It  may  be  wrong  to  open  it — and  worse 
not  to."  Like  her  sex,  she  took  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt,  and  intensified  her  perplexity  and  misery 
by  reading  and  misconstruing  the  all  but  unintelli- 
gible contents.  What  then  ?  Not  only  sobs  and 
sighs,  but  moaning  and  beating  of  little  fists  to- 
gether, and  outcries  of  soul-felt  agony  stifled 
against  the  bedside,  and  temples  pressed  into 
knitted  palms,  because  of  one  who  "  sought  not  to 
be  acquainted,"  but  offered  money — money  ! — in 
pity  to  a  poor — shame  on  her  for  saying  that  ! — a 
poor 


'  Tite  Poulette.  49 

And  now  our  self-confessed  dolt  turned  back 
from  a  half  hour's  walk,  concluding  there  might  be 
an  answer  to  his  note.  "  Surely  Madame  John  will 
appear  this  time."  He  knocked.  The  shutter 
stirred  above,  and  something  white  came  fluttering 
wildly  down  like  a  shot  dove.  It  was  his  own 
letter  containing  the  fifty  dollar  bill.  He  bounded 
to  the  wicket,  and  softly  but  eagerly  knocked 
again. 

"  Go  away,"  said  a  trembling  voice  from  above. 

"  Madame  John  ?  "  said  he  ;  but  the  window 
closed,  and  he  heard  a  step,  the  same  step  on  the 
stair.  Step,  step,  every  step  one  step  deeper  into 
his  heart.  'Tite  Poulette  came  to  the  closed  door. 

"  What  will  you  ?  "  said  the  voice  within. 

"  I — I — don't  wish  to  see  you.  I  wish  to  see 
Madame  John." 

"  I  must  pray  Monsieur  to  go  away.  My  mother 
is  at  the  Salle  de  Cond^." 

"  At  the  ball !  "  Kristian  Koppig  strayed  off, 
repeating  the  words  for  want  of  definite  thought. 
All  at  once  it  occurred  to  him  that  at  the  ball  he 
could  make  Madame  John's  acquaintance  with  im- 
punity. "  Was  it  courting  sin  to  go  ?  "  By  no 
means  ;  he  should,  most  likely,  save  a  woman  from 
trouble,  and  help  the  poor  in  their  distress. 

Behold  Kristian  Koppig  standing  on  the  floor 
of  the  Salle  de  Condi?.  A  large  hall,  a  blaze  of 
lamps,  a  bewildering  flutter  of  fans  and  floating 


50  Old  Creole  Days. 

robes,  strains  of  music,  columns  of  gay  promenaders, 
a  long  row  of  turbaned  mothers  lining  either  wall, 
gentlemen  of  the  portlier  sort  filling  the  recesses 
of  the  windows,  whirling  waltzers  gliding  here  and 
there — smiles  and  grace,  smiles  and  grace  ;  all  fair, 
orderly,  elegant,  bewitching.  A  young  Creole's 
laugh  mayhap  a  little  loud,  and — truly  there  were 
many  sword  canes.  '  But  neither  grace  nor  foul- 
ness satisfied  the  eye  of  the  zealous  young  Dutch- 
man. 

Suddenly  a  muffled  woman  passed  him,  leaning 
on  a  gentleman's  arm.  It  looked  like — it  must  be, 
Madame  John.  Speak  quick,  Kristian  Koppig  ;  do 
not  stop  to  notice  the  man  ! 

"  Madame  John  " — bowing — "  I  am  your  neigh- 
bor, Kristian  Koppig." 

Madame  John  bows  low,  and  smiles — a  ball- 
room smile,  but  is  frightened,  and  her  escort, — the 
manager, — drops  her  hand  and  slips  away. 

"  Ah  !  Monsieur,"  she  whispers  excitedly,  "  you 
will  be  killed  if  you  stay  here  a  moment.  Are 
you  armed  ?  No.  Take  this."  She  tried  to  slip 
a  dirk  into  his  hands,  but  he  would  not  have  it. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  young  man,  go  !  Go  quickly !  " 
she  plead,  glanc'.ng  furtively  down  the  hall. 

"  I  wish  you  not  to  dance,"  said  the  young 
man. 

"I  have  danced  already;  I  am  going  home. 
Come  ;  be  quick  !  we  will  go  together."  She 


*  Tite  Poulette.  51 

thrust  her  arm  through  his,  and  they  hastened  into 
the  street.  When  a  square  had  been  passed  there 
came  a  sound  of  men  running  behind  them. 

"Run,  Monsieur,  run!"  she  cried,  trying  to 
drag  him  ;  but  Monsieur  Dutchman  would  not. 

"  Run,  Monsieur  !     Oh,  my  God  !  it  is  'Sieur — " 

"  That  for  yesterday!"  cried  the  manager, 
striking  fiercely  with  his  cane.  Kristian  Koppig's 
fist  rolled  him  in  the  dirt. 

"  That  for  'Tite  Poulette  !  "  cried  another  man 
dealing  the  Dutchman  a  terrible  blow  from  be- 
hind. 

"  And  that  for  me  !  "  hissed  a  third,  thrusting 
at  him  with  something  bright. 

"  That  for  yesterday  !  "  screamed  the  manager, 
bounding  like  a  tiger;  "That!"  "THAT!" 
"Ha!" 

Then  Kristian  Koppig  knew  that  he  was  stabbed. 

"  That !  "  and  "  That !  "  and  "  That !  "  and  the 
poor  Dutchman  struck  wildly  here  and  there, 
grasped  the  air,  shut  his  eyes,  staggered,  reeled, 
fell,  rose  half  up,  fell  again  for  good,  and  they 
were  kicking  him  and  jumping  on  him.  All  at 
once  they  scampered.  Zalli  had  found  the  night- 
watch. 

"  Buz-z-z-z  !  "  went  a  rattle.  "  Buz-z-z-z  !  " 
went  another. 

"  Pick  him  up." 

"Is  he  alive?" 


52  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Can't  tell  ;  hold  him  steady  ;  lead  the  way, 
misses." 

"  He's  bleeding  all  over  my  breeches." 

"  This  way — here — around  this  corner." 

"  This  way  now — only  two  squares  more." 

"  Here  we  are." 

"Rap-rap-rap!"  on  the  old  brass  knocker. 
Curses  on  the  narrow  wicket,  more  on  the  dark 
archway,  more  still  on  the  twisting  stairs. 

Up  at  last  and  into  the  room. 

"  Easy,  easy,  push  this  under  his  head  !  never 
mind  his  boots  !  " 

So  he  lies — on  'Tite  Poulette's  own  bed. 

The  watch  are  gone.  They  pause  under  the 
corner  lamp  to  count  profits  ; — a  single  bill — 
Banque  de  la  Louisiane,  fifty  dollars.  Providence 
is  kind — tolerably  so.  Break  it  at  the  "  Guillaume 
Tell."  "  But  did  you  ever  hear  any  one  scream 
like  that  girl  did  ?  " 

And  there  lies  the  young  Dutch  neighbor.  His 
money  will  not  flutter  back  to  him  this  time  ;  nor 
will  any  voice  behind  a  gate  "  beg  Monsieur  to  go 
away."  O,  Woman  ! — that  knows  no  enemy  so. 
terrible  as  man  !  Come  nigh,  poor  Woman,  you 
have  nothing  to  fear.  Lay  your  strange,  electric 
touch  upon  the  chilly  flesh  ;  it  strikes  no  eager 
mischief  along  the  fainting  veins.  Look  your 
sweet  looks  upon  the  grimy  face,  and  tenderly  lay 
back  the  locks  from  the  congested  brows ;  no 


'  Tite  Poulette.  53 

wicked  misinterpretation  lurks  to  bite  your  kind- 
ness. Be  motherly,  be  sisterly,  fear  naught.  Go, 
watch  him  by  night ;  you  may  sleep  at  his  feet  and 
he  will  not  stir.  Yet  he  lives,  and  shall  live — may 
live  to  forget  you,  who  knows  ?  But  for  all  that, 
be  gentle  and  watchful ;  be  womanlike,  we  ask  no 
more  ;  and  God  reward  you  ! 

Even  while  it  was  taking  all  the  two  women's 
strength  to  hold  the  door  against  Death,  the  sick 
man  himself  laid  a  grief  upon  them. 

"  Mother,"  he  said  to  Madame  John,  quite  a  mas- 
ter of  French  in  his  delirium,  "  dear  mother,  fear 
not ;  trust  your  boy ;  fear  nothing.  I  will  not 
marry  'Tite  Poulette  ;  I  cannot.  She  is  fair,  dear 
mother,  but  ah  !  she  is  not — don't  you  know, 
mother  ?  don't  you  know  ?  The  race  !  the  race  ! 
Don't  you  know  that  she  is  jet  black.  Isn't  it  ?  " 

The  poor  nurse  nodded  "Yes,"  and  gave  a 
sleeping  draught  ;  but  before  the  patient  quite 
slept  he  started  once  and  stared. 

"  Take  her  away," — waving  his  hand — "  take 
your  beauty  away.  She  is  jet  white.  Who  could 
take  a  jet  white  wife  ?  O,  no,  no,  no,  no  !  " 

Next  morning  his  brain  was  right. 

"Madame,"  he  weakly  whispered,  "  I  was  de- 
lirious last  night  ?  " 

Zalli  shrugged.  .  "  Only  a  very,  very,  wee,  v/ee 
trifle  of  a  bit." 

"  And  did  I  say  something  wrong  or — foolish  ?  " 


54  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  O,  no,  no,"  she  replied;  "you  only  clasped 
your  hands,  so,  and  prayed,  prayed  all  the  time  to 
the  dear  Virgin." 

"  To  the  virgin  ?  "  asked  the  Dutchman,  smiling 
incredulously. 

"  And  St.  Joseph — yes,  indeed,"  she  insisted  ; 
"  you  may  strike  me  dead." 

And  so,  for  politeness'  sake,  he  tried  to  credit 
the  invention,  but  grew  suspicious  instead. 

Hard  was  the  battle  against  death.  Nurses  are 
sometimes  amazons,  and  such  were  these.  Through 
the  long,  enervating  summer,  the  contest  lasted  ; 
but  when  at  last  the  cool  airs  of  October  came 
stealing  in  at  the  bedside  like  long-banished  little 
children,  Kristian  Koppig  rose  upon  his  elbow 
and  smiled  them  a  welcome. 

The.  physician,  blessed  man,  was  kind  beyond 
measure  ;  but  said  some  inexplicable  things,  which 
Zalli  tried  in  vain  to  make  him  speak  in  an  under- 
tone. "If  I  knew  Monsieur  John?"  he  said, 
"  certainly  I  Why,  we  were  chums  at  school.  And 
he  left  you  so  much  as  that,  Madame  John  ?  Ah  ! 
my  old  friend  John,  always  noble  !  And  you  had 
it  all  in  that  naughty  bank  ?  Ah,  well,  Madame 
John,  it  matters  little.  No,  I  shall  not  tell  'Tite 
Poulette.  Adieu." 

And  another  time  : — "  If  I  will  let  you  tell  me 
something?  With  pleasure,  Madame  John.  No, 
and  not  tell  anybody,  Madame  John.  No,  Madame, 


'  Tite  Poulette.  55 

not  even  'Tite  Poulette.  What?" — a  long  whistle 
— "is  that  pos-si-ble  ? — and  Monsieur  John  knew 
it  ? — encouraged  it  ? — eh,  well,  eh,  well ! — But — 
can  I  believe  you,  Madame  John  ?  Oh  !  you  have 
Monsieur  John's  sworn  statement.  Ah!  very 
good,  truly,  but — you  say  you  have  it  ;  but  where 
is  it  ?  Ah!  to-morrow!"  a  skeptical  shrug. 
"  Pardon  me,  Madame  John,  I  think  perhaps,  per- 
haps you  are  telling  the  truth. 

"  If  I  think  you  did  right?  Certainly!  What 
nature  keeps  back,  accident  sometimes  gives, 
Madame  John ;  either  is  God's  will.  Don't  cry. 
'  Stealing  from  the  dead  ?  '  No  !  It  was  giving, 
yes  !  They  are  thanking  you  in  heaven,  Madame 
John." 

Kristian  Koppig,  lying  awake,  but  motionless 
and  with  closed  eyes,  hears  in  part,  and,  fancying 
he  understands,  rejoices  with  silent  intensity. 
When  the  doctor  is  gone  he  calls  Zalli. 

"  I  give  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  eh,  Madame 
John?" 

"  No,  no  ;  you  are  no  trouble  at  all.  Had  you 
the  yellow  fever — ah  !  then  !  " 

She  rolled  her  eyes  to  signify  the  superlative 
character  of  the  tribulations  attending  yellow  fever. 

"  I  had  a  lady  and  gentleman  once — a  Spanish 
lady  and  gentleman,  just  off  the  ship  ;  both  sick 
at  once  with  the  fever — delirious — could  not  tell 
tneir  names.  Nobody  to  help  me  but  sometimes 


56  Old  Creole  Days. 

Monsieur  John !  I  never  had  such  a  time, — 
never  before,  never  since, — as  that  time.  Four 
days  and  nights  this  head  touched  not  a  pillow." 

"  And  they  died  !  "  said  Kristian  Koppig. 

"The  third  night  the  gentleman  went.  Poor 
Sefior  !  'Sieur  John, — he  did  not  know  the  harm, 
— gave  him  some  coffee  and  toast !  The  fourth 
night  it  rained  and  turned  cool,  and  just  before 
day  the  poor  lady " 

"  Died  !  "  said  Koppig. 

Zalli  dropped  her  arms  listlessly  into  her  lap  and 
her  eyes  ran  brimful. 

"  And  left  an  infant  ! "  said  the  Dutchman, 
ready  to  shout  with  exultation. 

"  Ah  !  no,  Monsieur,"  said  Zalli. 

The  invalid's  heart  sank  like  a  stone. 

"  Madame  John," — his  voice  was  all  in  a  tremor, 
• — "  tell  me  the  truth.  Is  'Tite  Poulette  your  own 
child  ?  " 

"  Ah-h-h,  ha  !  ha  !  what  foolishness  !  Of  course 
she  is  my  child  !  "  And  Madame  gave  vent  to  a 
true  Frenchwoman's  laugh. 

It  was  too  much  for  the  sick  man.  In  the  piti- 
ful weakness  of  his  shattered  nerves  he  turned  his 
face  into  his  pillow  and  wept  like  a  child.  Zalli 
passed  into  the  next  room  to  hide  her  emotion. 

"Maman,  dear  Maman,"  said  'Tite  Poulette. 
who  had  overheard  nothing,  but  only  saw  the 
tears. 


'Tite  Poulette.  57 

"  Ah  !  my  child,  my  child,  my  task — my  task 
is  too  great — too  great  for  me.  Let  me  go  now — 
another  time.  Go  and  watch  at  his  bedside." 

"But,  Maman," — for  Tite  Poulette  was  fright- 
ened,— "he  needs  no  care  now." 

"  Nay,  but  go,  my  child  ;  I  wish  to  be  alone." 

The  maiden  stole  in  with  averted  eyes  and  tip- 
toed to  the  window — that  window.  The  patient, 
already  a  man  again,  gazed  at  her  till  she  could 
feel  the  gaze.  He  turned  his  eyes  from  her  a  mo- 
ment to  gather  resolution.  And  now,  stout  heart, 
farewell ;  a  word  or  two  of  friendly  parting — noth- 
ing more. 

"  Tite  Poulette." 

The  slender  figure  at  the  window  turned  and 
came  to  the  bedside. 

"  I  believe  I  owe  my  life  to  you,"  he  said. 

She  looked  down  meekly,  the  color  rising  in  her 
cheek. 

"  I  must  arrange  to  be  moved  across  the  street, 
to-morrow,  on  a  litter." 

She  did  not  stir  or  speak. 

"  And  I  must  now  thank  you,  sweet  nurse,  for 
youi  care.  Sweet  nurse  !  Sweet  nurse  !  " 

She  shook  her  head  in  protestation. 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  'Tite  Poulette  !  " 

Her  face  sank  lower. 

•'  God  has  made  you  very  beautiful,  'Tite  Pou- 
lette !  " 


58  Old  Creole  Days. 

She  stirred  not.  He  reached,  and  gently  took 
her  little  hand,  and  as  he  drew  her  one  step  nearer, 
a  tear  fell  from  her  long  lashes.  From  the  next 
room,  Zalli,  with  a  face  of  agonized  suspense, 
gazed  upon  the  pair,  undiscovered.  The  young 
man  lifted  the  hand  to  lay  it  upon  his  lips,  when, 
with  a  mild,  firm  force,  it  was  drawn  away,  yet 
still  rested  in  his  own  upon  the  bedside,  like  some 
weak  thing  snared,  that  could  only  not  get  free. 

"  Thou  wilt  not  have  my  love,  'Tite  Poulette  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Thou  wilt  not,  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Cannot  !  "  was  all  that  she  could  utter,  and 
upon  their  clasped  hands  the  tears  ran  down. 

"  Thou  wrong'st  me,  'Tite  Poulette.  Thou  dost 
not  trust  me  ;  thou  fearest  the  kiss  may  loosen  the 
hands.  But  I  tell  thee  nay.  I  have  struggled 
hard,  even  to  this  hour,  against  Love,  but  I  yield 
me  now  ;  I  yield  ;  I  am  his  unconditioned  prisoner 
forever.  God  forbid  that  I  ask  aught  but  that  you 
will  be  my  wife." 

Still  the  maiden  moved  not,  looked  not  up,  only 
rained  down  tears. 

"  Shall  it  not  be,  'Tite  Poulette  ?  "  He  tried  in 
vain  to  draw  her. 

"  Tite  Poulette  ?  "  So  tenderly  he  called  ! 
And  then  she  spoke. 

"It  is  against  the  law." 

"  It  is  not !  "   cried  Zalli,  seizing  her  round  the 


'  Tite  Poulette.  59 

waist  and  dragging  her  forward.  "  Take  her  !  she 
is  thine.  I  have  robbed  God  long  enough.  Here 
are  the  sworn  papers — here  !  Take  her  ;  she  is  as 
white  as  snow — so  !  Take  her,  kiss  her  ;  Mary  be 
praised  !  I  never  had  a  child — she  is  the  Spaniard's 
daughter  !  " 


60  Old  Creole  Days. 


BELLES   DEMOISELLES   PLANTATION. 

THE  original  grantee  was  Count  — ,  assume  the 
name  to  be  De  Charleu  ;  the  old  Creoles  never  for- 
give a  public  mention.  He  was  the  French  king's 
commissary.  One  day,  called  to  France  to  explain 
the  lucky  accident  of  the  commissariat  having 
burned  down  with  his  account-books  inside,  he  left 
his  wife,  a  Choctaw  Comptesse,  behind. 

Arrived  at  court,  his  excuses  were  accepted, 
and  that  tract  granted  him  where  afterwards  stood 
Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.  A  man  cannot  re- 
member everything  !  In  a  fit  of  forgetfulness  he 
married  a  French  gentlewoman,  rich  and  beautiful, 
and  "brought  her  out."  However,  "All's  well 
that  ends  well ; "  a  famine  had  been  in  the  colony, 
and  the  Choctaw  Comptesse  had  starved,  leaving 
nought  but  a  half-caste  orphan  family  lurking  on 
the  edge  of  the  settlement,  bearing  our  French 
gentlewoman's  own  new  name,  and  being  men- 
tioned in  Monsieur's  will. 

And  the  new  Comptesse — she  tarried  but  a 
twelvemonth,  left  Monsieur  a  lovely  son,  and  de- 
parted, led  out  of  this  vain  world  by  the  swamp- 
fever. 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         61 

From  this  son  sprang  the  proud  Creole  family 
of  De  Charleu.  It  rose  straight  up,  up,  up,  gen- 
eration after  generation,  tall,  branchless,  slender, 
palm-like  ;  and  finally,  in  the  time  of  which  I  am 
to  tell,  flowered  with  all  the  rare  beauty  of  a  cen- 
tury-plant, in  Artemise,  Innocente,  Felicite,  the 
twins  Marie  and  Martha,  Leontine  and  little  Sep- 
tima ;  the  seven  beautiful  daughters  for  whom 
their  home  had  been  fitly  named  Belles  Demois- 
elles. 

The  Count's  grant  had  once  been  a  long  point, 
round  which  the  Mississippi  used  to  whirl,  and 
seethe,  and  foam,  that  it  was  horrid  to  behold. 
Big  whirlpools  would  open  and  wheel  about  in  the 
savage  eddies  under  the  low  bank,  "and  close  up 
again,  and  others  open,  and  spin,  and  disappear. 
Great  circles  of  muddy  surface  would  boil  up  from 
hundreds  of  feet  below,  and  gloss  over,  and  seem 
to  float  away, — sink,  come  back  again  under 
water,  and  with  only  a  soft  hiss  surge  up  again, 
and  again  drift  off,  and  vanish.  Every  few  min- 
utes the  loamy  bank  would  tip  down  a  great  load 
of  earth  upon  its  besieger,  and  fall  back  a  foot, — 
sometimes  a  yard, — and  the  writhing  river  would 
press  after,  until  at  last  the  Pointe  was  quite  swal- 
lowed up,  and  the  great  river  glided  by  in  a  majes- 
tic curve,  and  asked  no  more ;  the  bank  stood 
fast,  the  "caving"  became  a  forgotten  misfor- 
tune, and  the  diminished  grant  was  a  long,  sweep- 


62  Old  Creole  Days. 

ing,  willowy  bend,  rustling  with  miles  of  sugar- 
cane. 

Coming  up  the  Mississippi  in  the  sailing  craft  of 
those  early  days,  about  the  time  one  first  could 
descry  the  white  spires  of  the  old  St.  Louis  Cathe- 
dral, you  would  be  pretty  sure  to  spy,  just  over  to 
your  right  under  the  levee,  Belles  Demoiselles 
Mansion,  with  its  broad  veranda  and  red  painted 
cypress  roof,  peering  over  the  embankment,  like  a 
bird  in  the  nest,  half  hid  by  the  avenue  of  willows 
which  one  of  the  departed  De  Charleus, — he  that 
married  a  Marot, — had  planted  on  the  levee's 
crown. 

The  house  stood  unusually  near  the  river,  facing 
eastward,  and  standing  four-square,  with  an  im- 
mense veranda  about  its  sides,  and  a  flight  of  steps 
in  front  spreading  broadly  downward,  as  we  open 
arms  to  a  child.  From  the  veranda  nine  miles  of 
river  were  seen  ;  and  in  their  compass,  near  at 
hand,  the  shady  garden  full  of  rare  and  beautiful 
flowers  ;  farther  away  broad  fields  of  cane  and  rice, 
and  the  distant  quarters  of  the  slaves,  and  on  the 
horizon  everywhere  a  dark  belt  of  cypress  forest. 

The  master  was  old  Colonel,  De  Charleu, — Jean 
Albert  Henri  Joseph  De  Charleu-Marot,  and 
"Colonel"  by  the  grace  of  the  first  American 
governor.  Monsieur, — he  would  not  speak  to  any 
one  who  called  him  "  Colonel," — was  a  hoary- 
headed  patriarch.  His  step  was  firm,  his  form 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         63 

erect,  his  intellect  strong  and  clear,  his  counte- 
nance classic,  serene,  dignified,  commanding,  his 
manners  courtly,  his  voice  musical, — fascinating. 
He  had  had  his  vices, — all  his  life ;  but  had  borne 
them,  as  his  race  do,  with  a  serenity  of  conscience 
and  a  cleanness  of  mouth  that  left  no  outward 
blemish  on  the  surface  of  the  gentleman.  He  had 
gambled  in  Royal  street,  drank  hard  in  Orleans 
street,  run  his  adversary  through  in  the  duelling- 
ground  at  Slaughter-house  Point,  and  danced  and 
quarreled  at  the  St.  Philippe-street-theatre  quad- 
roon balls.  Even  now,  with  all  his  courtesy  and 
bounty,  and  a  hospitality  which  seemed  to  be  en- 
tertaining angels,  he  was  bitter-proud  and  penuri- 
ous, and  deep  down  in  his  hard-finished  heart 
loved  nothing  but  hifnself,  his  name,  and  his 
motherless  children.  But  these  !• — their  ravishing 
beauty  was  all  but  excuse  enough  for  the  un- 
bounded idolatry  of  their  father.  Against  these 
seven  goddesses  he  never  rebelled.  Had  they 
even  required  him  to  defraud  old  De  Carlos — 

I  can  hardly  say. 

Old  De  Carlos  was  his  extremely  distant  rela- 
tive on  the  Choctaw  side.  With  this  single  excep- 
tion, the  narrow  thread-like  line  of  descent  from 
the  Indian  wife,  diminished  to  a  mere  strand  by 
injudicious  alliances,  and  deaths  in  the  gutters  of 
old  New  Orleans,  was  extinct.  The  name,  by 
Spanish  contact,  had  become  De  Carlos  ;  but  this 


64  Old  Creole  Days. 

one  surviving  bearer  of  it  was  known  to  all,  and 
known  only,  as  Ingin  Charlie. 

One  thing  I  never  knew  a  Creole  to  do.  He 
will  not  utterly  go  back  on  the  ties  of  blood,  no 
matter  what  sort  of  knots  those  ties  may  be.  For 
one  reason,  he  is  never  ashamed  of  his  or  his 
father's  sins  ;  and  for  another, — he  will  tell  you — • 
he  is  "  all  heart  !  " 

So  the  different  heirs  of  the  De  Charleu  estate 
had  always  strictly  regarded  the  rights  and  inter- 
ests of  the  De  Carloses,  especially  their  ownership 
of  a  block  of  dilapidated  buildings  in  a  part  of  the 
city,  which  had  once  been  very  poor  property, 
but  was  beginning  to  be  valuable.  This  block 
had  much  more  than  maintained  the  last  De  Carlos 
through  a  long  and  lazy  lifetime,  and,  as  his  house- 
hold consisted  only  of  himself,  and  an  aged  and 
crippled  negress,  the  inference  was  irresistible  that 
he  "had  money."  Old  Charlie,  though  by  alias 
an  "  Injin,"  was  plainly  a  dark  white  man,  about 
as  old  as  Colonel  De  Charleu,  sunk  in  the  bliss  of 
deep  ignorance,  shrewd,  deaf,  and,  by  repute  at 
least,  unmerciful. 

The  Colonel  and  he  always  conversed  in  Eng- 
lish. This  rare  accomplishment,  which  the  former 
had  learned  from  his  Scotch  wife, — the  latter  from 
up-river  traders, — they  found  an  admirable  medium 
of  communication,  answering,  better  than  French 
c,ould,  a  similar  purpose  to  that  of  the  stick  which 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation,         65 

we  fasten  to  the  bit  of  one  horse  and  breast-gear 
of  another,  whereby  each  keeps  his  distance. 
Once  in  a  while,  too,  by  way  of  jest,  English  found 
its  way  among  the  ladies  of  Belles  Demoiselles, 
always  signifying  that  their  sire  was  about  to  have 
business  with  old  Charlie. 

Now  a  long  standing  wish  to  buy  out  Charlie 
troubled  the  Colonel.  He  had  no  desire  to  oust 
him  unfairly ;  he  was  proud  of  being  always  fair ; 
yet  he  did  long  to  engross  the  whole  estate  under 
one  title.  Out  of  his  luxurious  idleness  he  had 
conceived  this  desire,  and  thought  little  of  so  slight 
an  obstacle  as  being  already  somewhat  in  debt  to 
old  Charlie  for  money  borrowed,  and  for  which 
Belles  Demoiselles  was,  of  course,  good,  ten  times 
over.  Lots,  buildings,  rents,  all,  might  as  well  be 
his,  he  thought,  to  give,  keep,  or  destroy.  "  Had 
he  but  the  old  man's  heritage.  Ah  !  he  might 
bring  that  into  existence  which  his  belles  demoiselles 
had  been  begging  for,  '  since  many  years  ;  '  a 
home, — and  such  a  home, — in  the  gay  city.  Here 
he  should  tear  down  this  row  of  cottages,  and  make 
his  garden  wall ;  there  that  long  rope-walk  should 
give  place  to  vine-covered  arbors ;  the  bakery 
yonder  should  make  way  for  a  costly  conserva- 
tory ;  that  wine  warehouse  should  come  down, 
and  the  mansion  go  up.  It  should  be  the  finest 
in  the  State.  Men  should  never  pass  it,  but  they 
should  say — '  the  palace  of  the  De  Charleus  ;  a 


66  Old  Creole  Days. 

family  of  grand  descent,  a  people  of  elegance  and 
bounty,  a  line  as  old  as  France,  a  fine  old  man,  and 
seven  daughters  as  beautiful  as  happy ;  whoever 
dare  attempt  to  marry  there  must  leave  his  own 
name  behind  him  ! ' 

"  The  house  should  be  of  stones  fitly  set,  brought 
down  in  ships  from  the  land  of '  les  Yankees,'  and 
it  should  have  an  airy  belvedere,  with  a  gilded 
image  tip-toeing  and  shining  on  its  peak,  and  from 
it  you  should  see,  far  across  the  gleaming  folds  of 
the  river,  the  red  roof  of  Belles  Demoiselles,  the 
country-seat.  At  the  big  stone  gate  there  should 
be  a  porter's  lodge,  and  it  should  be  a  privilege 
even  to  see  the  ground." 

Truly  they  were  a  family  fine  enough,  and  fancy- 
free  enough  to  have  fine  wishes,  yet  happy  enough 
where  they  were,  to  have  had  no  wish  but  to  live 
there  always. 

To  those,  who,  by  whatever  fortune,  wandered 
into  the  garden  of  Belles  Demoiselles  some  sum- 
mer afternoon  as  the  sky  was  reddening  towards 
evening,  it  was  lovely  to  see  the  family  gathered 
out  upon  the  tiled  pavement  at  the  foot  of  the 
broad  front  steps,  gaily  chatting  and  jesting,  with 
that  ripple  of  laughter  that  comes  so  pleasingly 
from  a  bevy  of  girls.  The  father  would  be  found 
seated  in  their  midst,  the  center  of  attention  and 
compliment,  witness,  arbiter,  umpire,  critic,  by  his 
beautiful  children's  unanimous  appointment,  but 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         67 

the  single  vassal,  too,  of  seven  absolute  sover- 
eigns. 

Now  they  would  draw  their  chairs  near  togethet 
in  eager  discussion  of  some  new  step  in  the  dance,  or 
the  adjustment  of  some  rich  adornment.  Now  they 
would  start  about  him  with  excited  comments  to  see 
the  eldest  fix  a  bunch  of  violets  in  his  button-hole. 
Now  the  twins  would  move  down  a  walk  after  some 
unusual  flower,  and  be  greeted  on  their  return  with 
the  high  pitched  notes  of  delighted  feminine  surprise. 

As  evening  came  on  they  would  draw  more 
quietly  about  their  paternal  center.  Often  their 
chairs  were  forsaken,  and  they  grouped  themselves 
on  the  lower  steps,  one  above  another,  and  surren- 
dered themselves  to  the  tender  influences  of  the 
approaching  night.  At  such  an  hour  the  passer 
on  the  river,  already  attracted  by  the  dark  figures 
of  the  broad-roofed  mansion,  and  its  woody  garden 
standing  against  the  glowing  sunset,  would  hear 
the  voices  of  the  hidden  group  rise  from  the  spot 
in  the  soft  harmonies  of  an  evening  song  ;  swelling 
clearer  and  clearer  as  the  thrill  of  music  warmed 
them  into  feeling,  and  presently  joined  by  the 
deeper  tones  of  the  father's  voice  ;  then,  as  the 
daylight  passed  quite  away,  all  would  be  still,  and 
he  would  know  that  the  beautiful  home  had  gath- 
ered its  nestlings  under  its  wings. 

And  yet,  for  mere  vagary,  it  pleased  them  not 
to  be  pleased. 


68  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Arti  !  "  called  one  sister  to  another  in  the  broad 
hall,  one  morning, — mock  amazement  in  her 
distended  eyes, — "  something  is  goin1  to  took 
place  !  " 

"  Comm-e-n-t  ?  " — longdrawn  perplexity. 

"  Papa  is  goin'  to  town  !  " 

The  news  passed  up  stairs. 

"  Inno  !  " — one  to  another  meeting  in  a  door- 
way,— "  something  is  goin'  to  took  place  !  " 

"  Qiiest-ce-que  c'est/" — vain  attempt  at  gruff- 
ness. 

"  Papa  is  goin'  to  town  !  " 

The  unusual  tidings  were  true.  It  was  afternoon 
of  the  same  day  that  the  Colonel  tossed  his  horse's 
bridle  to  his  groom,  and  stepped  up  to  old  Charlie, 
who  was  sitting  on  his  bench  under  a  China-tree, 
his  head,  as  was  his  fashion,  bound  in  a  Madras 
handkerchief.  The  "  old  man  "  was  plainly  under 
the  effect  of  spirits,  and  smiled  a  deferential  saluta- 
tion without  trusting  himself  to  his  feet. 

"Eh,  well  Charlie!" — the  Colonel  raised  his 
voice  to  suit  his  kinsman's  deafness, — "  how  is 
those  times  with  my  friend  Charlie  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Charlie,  distractedly. 

"  Is  that  goin'  well  with  my  friend  Charlie  ?  " 

"  In  de  house, — call  her," — making  a  pretense 
of  rising. 

"  Non,  non  !  I  don't  want," — the  speaker  paused 
to  breathe — "  ow  is  collection  ?  " 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         69 

"  O  !  "  said  Charlie,  "  every  day  he  make  me 
more  poorer  !  " 

"  What  do  you  hask  for  it?  "  asked  the  planter 
indifferently,  designating  the  house  by  a  wave  of 
his  whip. 

"  Ask  for  w'at  ?  "  said  Injin  Charlie. 

"  De  house  !     What  you  ask  for  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe,"  said  Charlie. 

"  What  you  would  take  for  it  !  "  cried  the  plan- 
ter. 

"Wait  for  w'at?" 

"  What  you  would  take  for  the  whole  block  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  sell  him  !  " 

"  I'll  give  you  ten  thousand  dollah  for  it." 

"  Ten  t'ousand  dollah  for  dis  house  ?  O,  no, 
dat  is  no  price.  He  is  blame  good  old  house, — . 
dat  old  house."  (Old  Charlie  and  the  Colonel 
never  swore  in  presence  of  each  other.)  "Forty 
years  dat  old  house  didn't  had  to  be  paint !  I 
easy  can  get  fifty  t'ousand  dollah  for  dat  old 
house." 

"  Fifty  thousand  picayunes  ;  yes,"  said  the 
colonel. 

"  She's  a  good  house.  Can  make  plenty  money," 
pursued  the  deaf  man. 

"  That's  what  make  you  so  rich,  eh,  Charlie  ?  " 

"  Non,  I  don't  make  nothing.  Too  blame  clever, 
me,  dat's  de  troub'.  She's  a  good  house, — make 
.money  fast  like  a  steamboat, — make  a  barrel  full 


70  Old  Creole  Days. 

in  a  week  !  Me,  I  lose  money  all  de  days.  Too 
blame  clever." 

"  Charlie  ! " 

"Eh?" 

"  Tell  me  what  you'll  take  ?  " 

"  Make  ?  I  don't  make  nothing.  Too  blame 
clever." 

"  What  will  you  take  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  got  enough  already, — half  drunk  now." 

"  What  will  you  take  for  the  'ouse  ?  " 

"  You  want  to  buy  her  ?  " 

"I  don't  know," — (shrug), — "  mayfo, — if  you 
sell  it  cheap." 

"  She's  a  bully  old  house." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  By  and  by  old  Charlie 
commenced — 

"  Old  Injin  Charlie  is  a  low-down  dog." 

"  Cest  vrai,  oui  /  "  retorted  the  Colonel  in  an 
undertone. 

"  He's  got  Injin  blood  in  him." 

The  Colonel  nodded  assent. 

"  But  he's  got  some  blame  good  blood,  too, 
ain't  it?" 

The  Colonel  nodded  impatiently. 

"  Bien !  Old  Charlie's  Injin  blood  says,  'sell 
de  house,  Charlie,  you  blame  old  fool ! '  Mais, 
old  Charlie's  good  blood  says,  '  Charlie  !  if  you  sell 
dat  old  house,  Charlie,  you  low-down  old  dog, 
Charlie,  what  de  Compte  De  Charleu  make  for  you 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         71 

grace-gran'-muzzer,  de  dev'  can  eat  you,  Charlie, 
I  don't  care.'" 

"  But  you'll  sell  it  anyhow,  won't  you,  old 
man  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  And  the  no  rumbled  off  in  muttered 
oaths  like  thunder  out  on  the  Gulf.  The  incensed 
old  Colonel  wheeled  and  started  off. 

"Curl!"  [Colonel]  said  Charlie,  standing  up 
unsteadily. 

The  planter  turned  with  an  inquiring  frown. 

"  I'll  trade  with  you !"  said  Charlie. 

The  Colonel  was  tempted.  "  'Ow'l  you  trade  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  My  house  for  yours  !  " 

The  old  Colonel  turned  pale  with  anger.  He 
walked  very  quickly  back,  and  came  close  up  to 
his  kinsman. 

"  Charlie  !"  he  said. 

"  Injin  Charlie,"  with  a  tipsy  nod. 

But  by  this  time  self-control  was  returning. 
"Sell  Belles  Demoiselles  to  you?"  he  said  in  a 
high  key,  and  then  laughed  "Ho,  ho,  ho!"  and 
rode  away. 

A  cloud,  but  not  a  dark  one,  overshadowed  the 
spirits  of  Belles  Demoiselles'  plantation.  The  old 
master,  whose  beaming  presence  had  always  made 
him  a  shining  Saturn,  spinning  and  sparkling  within 
the  bright  circle  of  his- daughters,  fell  into  musing 


72  Old  Creole  Days. 

fits,  started  out  of  frowning  reveries,  walked  often 
by  himself,  and  heard  business  from  his  overseer 
fretfully. 

No  wonder.  The  daughters  knew  his  closeness 
in  trade,  and  attributed  to  it  his  failure  to  negotiate 
for  the  Old  Charlie  buildings, — so  to  call  them. 
They  began  to  depreciate  Belles  Demoiselles.  If 
a  north  wind  blew,  it  was  too  cold  to  ride.  If  a 
shower  had  fallen,  it  was  too  muddy  to  drive.  In 
the  morning  the  garden  was  wet.  In  the  evening 
the  grasshopper  was  a  burden.  Ennui  was  turned 
into  capital ;  every  headache  was  interpreted  a 
premonition  of  ague  ;  and  when  the  native  exu- 
berance of  a  flock  of  ladies  without  a  want  or  a  care 
burst  out  in  laughter  in  the  father's  face,  they 
spread  their  French  eyes,  rolled  up  their  little 
hands,  and  with  rigid  wrists  and  mock  vehemence 
vowed  and  vowed  again  that  they  only  laughed  at 
their  misery,  and  should  pine  to  death  unless  they 
could  move  to  the  sweet  city.  "  O  !  the  theater  ! 
O  !  Orleans  Street !  O  !  the  masquerade  !  the 
Place  d'Armes  !  the  ball  !  "  and  they  would  call 
upon  Heaven  with  French  irreverence,  and  fall  into 
each  other's  arms,  and  whirl  down  the  hall  singing 
a  waltz,  end  with  a  grand  collision  and  fall,  and, 
their  eyes  streaming  merriment,  lay  the  blame  on 
the  slippery  floor,  that  would  some  day  be  the 
death  of  the  whole  seven. 

Three  times  more  the  fond  father,  thus  goaded, 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         73 

managed,  by  accident, — business  accident, — to  see 
old  Charlie  and  increase  his  offer  ;  but  in  vain.  He 
finally  went  to  him  formally. 

"Eh?"  said  the  deaf  and  distant  relative. 
"For  what  you  want  him,  eh?  Why  you  don't 
stay  where  you  halways  be  'appy  ?  Dis  is  a  blame 
old  rat-hole, — good  for  old  Injin  Charlie, — da's 
all.  Why  you  don't  stay  where  you  be  hal- 
ways 'appy  ?  Why  you  don't  buy  somewheres 
else  ?  " 

"That's  none  of  your  business,"  snapped  the 
planter.  Truth  was,  his  reasons  were  unsatisfac- 
tory even  to  himself. 

A  sullen  silence  followed.     Then  Charlie  spoke : 

"  Well,  now,  look  here  ;  I  sell  you  old  Charlie's 
house." 

"  Bien  !  and  the  whole  block,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  Hold  on,"  said  Charlie.  "  I  sell  you  de  'ouse 
and  de  block.  Den  I  go  and  git  drunk,  and  go  to 
sleep  ;  de  dev'  comes  along  and  says,  '  Charlie  ! 
old  Charlie,  you  blame  low-down  old  dog,  wake 
up  !  What  you  doin'  here  ?  Where's  de  'ouse  what 
Monsieur  le  Compte  give  your  grace-gran-muzzer  ? 
Don't  you  see  dat  fine  gentyman,  De  Charleu, 
done  gone  and  tore  him  down  and  make  him  over 
new,  you  blame  old  fool,  Charlie,  you  low-down  old 
Injin  dog  ! '  " 

"  I'll  give  you  forty  thousand  dollars,"  said  the 
Colonel. 


74  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  For  de  'ouse  ?  " 

"For  all." 

The  deaf  man  shook  his  head. 

"  Forty-five  !  "  said  the  Colonel. 

"What  a  lie?  For  what  you  tell  me  'what  a 
lie  ?  '  I  don't  tell  you  no  lie." 

"  Non,  non  !  I  give  you  forty-five  I  "  shouted 
the  Colonel. 

Charlie  shook  his  head  again. 

"Fifty!" 

He  shook  it  again. 

The  figures  rose  and  rose  to — 

"  Seventy-five  !  " 

The  answer  was  an  invitation  to  go  away  and 
let  the  owner  alone,  as  he  was,  in  certain  specified 
respects,  the  vilest  of  living  creatures,  and  no  com- 
pany for  a  fine  gentyman. 

The  "fine  gentyman"  longed  to  blaspheme, — 
but  before  old  Charlie  ! — in  the  name  of  pride,  how 
could  he  ?  He  mounted  and  started  away. 

"  Tell  you  what  I'll  make  wid  you,"  said  Charlie. 

The  other,  guessing  aright,  turned  back  without 
dismounting,  smiling. 

"  How  much  Belles  Demoiselles  hoes  me  now  ?  " 
asked  the  deaf  one. 

"  One  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  dollars," 
said  the  Colonel,  firmly. 

"  Yass,"  said  Charlie.  "I  don't  want  Belles 
Demoiselles." 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         75 

The  old  Colonel's  quiet  laugh  intimated  it  made 
no  difference  either  way. 

"  But  me,"  continued  Charlie,  "me, — I'm  got  le 
Compte  De  Charleu's  blood  in  me,  any'ow, — a  litt' 
bit,  any'ow,  ain't  it  ?  " 

The  Colonel  nodded  that  it  was. 

•"  Bien  !  If  I  go  out  of  dis  place  and  don't  go 
to  Belles  Demoiselles,  de  peoples  will  say, — day 
will  say,  '  Old1  Charlie  he  been  all  doze  time  tell  a 
blame  lie  !  He  ain't  no  kin  to  his  old  grace-gran- 
muzzer,  not  a  blame  bit !  He  don't  got  nary 
drop  of  De  Charleu  blood  to  save  his  blame  low- 
down  old  Injin  soul !  No,  sare  !  What  I  want 
wid  money,  den  ?  No,  sare  ?  My  place  for 
yours  ! " 

He  turned  to  go  into  the  house,  just  too  soon  to 
see  the  Colonel  make  an  ugly  whisk  at  him  with 
his  riding-whip.  Then  the  Colonel,  too,  moved 
off. 

Two  or  three  times  over,  as  he  ambled  home- 
ward, laughter  broke  through  his  annoyance,  as  he 
recalled  old  Charlie's  family  pride  and  the  pre- 
sumption of  his  offer.  Yet  each  time  he  could  but 
think  better  of— not  the  offer  to  swap,  but  the  pre- 
posterous ancestral  loyalty.  It  was  so  much  better 
than  he  could  have  expected  from  his  "low- 
down  "  relative,  and  not  unlike  his  own  whim 
withal — the  proposition  which  went  with  it  was 
forgiven. 


76  Old  Creole  Days. 

This  last  defeat  bore  so  harshly  on  the  master 
of  Belles  Demoiselles,  that  the  daughters,  reading 
chagrin  in  his  face,  began  to  repent.  They  loved 
their  father  as  daughters  can,  and  when  they  saw 
their  pretended  dejection  harassing  him  seriously 
they  restrained  their  complaints,  displayed  more 
than  ordinary  tenderness,  and  heroically  and  osten- 
tatiously concluded  there  was  no  place  like  Belles 
Demoiselles.  But  the  new  mood  touched  him 
more  than  the  old,  and  only  refined  his  discontent 
Here  was  a  man,  rich  without  the  care  of  riches, 
free  from  any  real  trouble,  happiness  as  native  to 
his  house  as  perfume  to  his  garden,  deliberately, 
as  it  were  with  premeditated  malice,  taking  joy  by 
the  shoulder  and  bidding  her  be  gone  to  town, 
whither  he  might  easily  have  followed,  only  that 
the  very  same  ancestral  nonsense  that  kept  Injin 
Charlie  from  selling  the  old  place  for  twice  its  value 
prevented  him  from  choosing  any  other  spot  for  a 
city  home. 

But  by  and  by  the  charm  of  nature  and  the 
merry  hearts  around  him  prevailed  ;  the  fit  of 
exalted  sulks  passed  off,  and  after  a  while  the 
year  flared  up  at  Christmas,  flickered,  and  went 
out. 

New  Year  came  and  passed  ;  the  beautiful  gar- 
den of  Belles  Demoiselles  put  on  its  spring  attire  ; 
the  seven  fair  sisters  moved  from  rose  to  rose  ;  the 
cloud  of  discontent  had  warmed  into  invisible 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         77 

vapor  in  the  rich  sunlight  of  family  affection,  and 
on  the  common  memory  the  only  scar  of  last  year's 
wound  was  old  Charlie's  sheer  impertinence  in 
crossing  the  caprice  of  the  De  Charleus.  The  cup  of 
gladness  seemed  to  fill  with  the  filling  of  the  river. 

How  high  it  was  !  Its  tremendous  current  rolled 
and  tumbled  and  spun  along,  hustling  the  long 
funeral  flotillas  of  drift, — and  how  near  shore  it 
came  !  Men  were  out  day  and  night,  watching 
the  levee.  On  windy  nights  even  the  old  Colonel 
took  part,  and  grew  light-hearted  with  occupation 
and  excitement,  as  every  minute  the  river  threw  a 
white  arm  over  the  levee's  top,  as  though  it  would 
vault  over.  But  all  held  fast,  and,  as  the  summer 
drifted  in,  the  water  sunk  down  into  its  banks  and 
looked  quite  incapable  of  harm. 

On  a  summer  afternoon  of  uncommon  mildness, 
old  Colonel  Jean  Albert  Henri  Joseph  De  Charleu- 
Marot,  being  in  a  mood  for  reverie,  slipped  the 
custody  of  his  feminine  rulers  and  sought  the 
crown  of  the  levee,  where  it  was  his  wont  to  prom- 
enade. Presently  he  sat  upon  a  stone  bench, — a 
favorite  seat.  Before  him  lay  his  broadspread 
fields ;  near  by,  his  lordly  mansion  ;  and  being 
still, — perhaps  by  female  contact, — somewhat  sen- 
timental, he  fell  to  musing  on  his  past.  It  was 
hardly  worthy  to  be  proud  of.  All  its  morning 
was  reddened  with  mad  frolic,  and  far  toward  the 
meridian  it  was  marred  with  elegant  rioting.  Pride 


78  Old  Creole  Days. 

had  kept  him  well  nigh  useless,  and  despised  the 
honors  won  by  valor ;  gaming  had  dimmed  pros- 
perity ;  death  had  taken  his  heavenly  wife  ;  volup- 
tuous ease  had  mortgaged  his  lands  ;  and  yet  his 
house  still  stood,  his  sweet-smelling  fields  were 
still  fruitful,  his  name  was  fame  enough  ;  and  yon- 
der and  yonder,  among  the  trees  and  flowers,  like 
angels  walking  in  Eden,  were  the  seven  goddesses 
of  his  only  worship. 

Just  then  a  slight  sound  behind  him  brought  him 
to  his  feet.  He  cast  his  eyes  anxiously  to  the 
outer  edge  of  the  little  strip  of  bank  between  the 
levee's  base  and  the  river.  There  was  nothing 
visible.  He  paused,  with  his  ear  toward  the  water, 
his  face  full  of  frightened  expectation.  Ha  !  There 
came  a  single  plashing  sound,  like  some  great 
beast  slipping  into  the  river,  and  little  waves  in  a 
wide  semi-circle  came  out  from  under  the  bank  and 
spread  over  the  water  ! 

"My  God!" 

He  plunged  down  the  levee  and  bounded  through 
the  low  weeds  to  the  edge  of  the  bank.  It  was 
sheer,  and  the  water  about  four  feet  below.  He 
did  not  stand  quite  on  the  edge,  but  fell  upon  his 
knees  a  couple  of  yards  away,  wringing  his  hands, 
moaning  and  weeping,  and  staring  through  his 
watery  eyes  at  a  fine,  long  crevice  just  discernible 
under  the  matted  grass,  and  curving  outward  on 
either  hand  toward  the  river. 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         79 

"My  God!"  he  sobbed  aloud;  "my  God!" 
and  even  while  he  called,  his  God  answered  :  the 
tough  Bermuda  grass  stretched  and  snapped,  the 
crevice  slowly  became  a  gape,  and  softly,  gradu- 
ally, with  no  sound  but  the  closing  of  the  water  at 
last,  a  ton  or  more  of  earth  settled  into  the  boiling 
eddy  and  disappeared. 

At  the  same  instant  a  pulse  of  the  breeze  brought 
from  the  garden  behind,  the  joyous,  thoughtless 
laughter  of  the  fair  mistresses  of  Belles  Demoi- 
selles. 

The  old  Colonel  sprang  up  and  clambered  over 
the  levee.  Then  forcing  himself  to  a  more  com- 
posed movement,  he  hastened  into  the  house  and 
ordered  his  horse. 

"Tell  my  children  to  make  merry  while  I  am 
gone,"  he  left  word.  "  I  shall  be  back  to-night," 
and  the  horse's  hoofs  clattered  down  a  by-road 
leading  to  the  city. 

"  Charlie,"  said  the  planter,  riding  up  to  a  win- 
dow, from  which  the  old  man's  night-cap  was 
thrust  out,  "  what  you  say,  Charlie, — my  house 
for  yours,  eh,  Charlie — what  you  say  ?  " 

"Ello!"  said  Charlie;  "  from  where  you  come 
from  dis  time  of  to-night  ?  " 

"  I  come  from  the  Exchange  in  St.  Louis-street." 
(A  small  fraction  of  the  truth.) 

"What  you  want?"  said  matter-of-fact  Char- 
lie. 


8o  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  I  come  to  trade." 

The  low-down  relative  drew  the  worsted  off  his 
ears.  "Oh  !  yass,"  he  said  with  an  uncertain  air, 

"Well,  old  man  Charlie,  what  you  say:  my 
house  for  yours,— like  you  said, — eh,  Charlie  ?  " 

"I  dunno,"  said  Charlie;  "it's  nearly  mine 
now.  Why  you  don't  stay  dare  youse'f  ?  " 

"Because  I  don't  want!"  said  the  Colonel 
savagely.  "  Is  dat  reason  enough  for  you  ?  You 
better  take  me  in  de  notion,  old  man,  I  tell  you, — 
yes  !  " 

Charlie  never  winced ;  but  how  his  answer  de- 
lighted the  Colonel !  Quoth  Charlie  : 

"  I  don't  care — I  take  him  ! — mats,  possession 
give  right  off." 

"  Not:  the  whole  plantation,   Charlie  ;    only — 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Charlie  ;  "we  easy  can  fix 
dat.  Mais,  what  for  you  don't  want  to  keep  him  ? 
I  don't  want  him.  You  better  keep  him." 

"  Don't  you  try  to  make  no  fool  of  me,  old 
man,"  cried  the  planter. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  the  other.  "  Oh,  no  !  but  you 
make  a  fool  of  yourself,  ain't  it  ?  " 

The  dumbfounded  Colonel  stared  ;  Charlie  went 
on  : 

"  Yass  !  Belles  Demoiselles  is  more  wort'  dan 
tree  block  like  dis  one.  I  pass  by  dare  since  two 
weeks.  Oh,  pritty  Belles  Demoiselles  !  De  cane 
was  wave  in  de  wind,  de  garden  smell  like  a  bou- 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         81 

quet,  de  white-cap  was  jump  up  and  down  on  de 
river  ;  seven  belles  demoiselles  was  ridin'  on  horses. 
'  Pritty,  pritty,  pritty ! '  says  old  Charlie.  Ah ! 
Monsieur  le  pere,  'ow  'appy,  'appy,  'appy  !  " 

"  Yass  !  "  he  continued — the  Colonel  still  staring 
— "  le  Compte  De  Charleu  have  two  familie.  One 
was  low-down  Choctaw,  one  was  high  up  noblesse. 
He  give  the  low-down  Choctaw  dis  old  rat-hole  ; 
he  give  Belles  Demoiselles  to  your  gran-fozzer ; 
and  now  you  don't  be  satisfait.  What  I'll  do  wid 
Belles  Demoiselles  ?  She'll  break  me  in  two  years, 
yass.  And  what  you'll  do  wid  old  Charlie's  house, 
eh  ?  You'll  tear  her  down  and  make  you'se'f  a 
blame  old  fool.  I  rather  wouldn't  trade  !  " 

The  planter  caught  a  big  breathful  of  anger,  but 
Charlie  went  straight  on  : 

"  I  rather  wouldn't,  mats  I  will  do  it  for  you  ; — 
just  the  same,  like  Monsieur  le  Compte  would  say, 
'  Charlie,  you  old  fool,  I  want  to  shange  houses  wid 
you.' " 

So  long  as  the  Colonel  suspected  irony  he  was 
angry,  but  as  Charlie  seemed,  after  all,  to  be  cer- 
tainly in  earnest,  he  began  to  feel  conscious-strick- 
en. He  was  by  no  means  a  tender  man,  but  his 
lately-discovered  misfortune  had  unhinged  him, 
and  this  strange,  undeserved,  disinterested  family 
fealty  on  the  part  of  Charlie  touched  his  heart. 
And  should  he  still  try  to  lead  him  into  the  pitfall 
Jie  had  dug  ?  He  hesitated  ; — no,  he  would  show 


82  Old  Creole  Days. 

him  the  place  by  broad  day-light,  and  if  he  chose 
to  overlook  the  "  caving  bank,"  it  would  be  his 
own  fault ; — a  trade's  a  trade. 

"  Come,"  said  the  planter,  "  come  at  my  house 
to-night ;  to-morrow  we  look  at  the  place  before 
breakfast,  and  finish  the  trade." 

"  For  what  ?  "  said  Charlie. 

"  Oh,  because  I  got  to  come  in  town  in  the 
morning." 

"  I  don't  want, "  said  Charlie.  "  How  I'm 
goin'  to  come  dere  ?  " 

"  I  git  you  a  horse  at  the  liberty  stable." 

"  Well — anyhow — I  don't  care — I'll  go."  And 
they  went. 

When  they  had  ridden  a  long  time,  and  were  on 
the  road  darkened  by  hedges  of  Cherokee  rose, 
the  Colonel  called  behind  him  to  the  "  low-down" 
scion  : 

"  Keep  the  road,  old  man." 

"Eh?" 

"Keep  the  road." 

"Oh,  yes;  all  right;  I  keep  my  word;  we 
don't  goin'  to  play  no  tricks,  eh  ?  " 

But  the  Colonel  seemed  not  to  hear.  His  un- 
generous design  was  beginning  to  be  hateful  to 
him.  Not  only  old  Charlie's  unprovoked  good- 
ness was  prevailing  ;  the  eulogy  on  Belles  Demoi- 
selles had  stirred  the  depths  of  an  intense  love  for 
his  beautiful  home.  True,  if  he  held  to  it,  the 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         83 

caving  of  the  bank,  at  its  present  fearful  speed, 
would  let  the  house  into  the  river  within  three 
months  ;  but  were  it  not  better  to  lose  it  so,  than 
sell  his  birthright?  Again, — coming  back  to  the 
first  thought, — to  betray  his  own  blood  !  It  was  only 
Injin  Charlie;  but  had  not  the  De  Charleu  blood  just 
spoken  out  in  him  ?  Unconsciously  he  groaned. 

After  a  time  they  struck  a  path  approaching  the 
plantation  in  the  rear,  and  a  little  after,  passing 
from  behind  a  clump  of  live-oaks,  they  came  in 
sight  of  the  villa.  It  looked  so  like  a  gem,  shining 
through  its  dark  grove,  so  like  a  great  glow-worm 
in  the  dense  foliage,  so  significant  of  luxury  and 
gayety,  that  the  poor  master,  from  an  overflowing 
heart,  groaned  again. 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Charlie. 

The  Colonel  only  drew  his  rein,  and,  dismount- 
ing mechanically,  contemplated  the  sight  before 
him.  The  high,  arched  doors  and  windows  were 
thrown  wide  to  the  summer  air  ;  from  every  open- 
ing the  bright  light  of  numerous  candelabra  darted 
out  upon  the  sparkling  foliage  of  magnolia  and 
bay,  and  here  and  there  in  the  spacious  verandas 
a  colored  lantern  swayed  in  the  gentle  breeze.  A 
sound  of  revel  fell  on  the  ear,  the  music  of  harps  ; 
and  across  one  window,  brighter  than  the  rest, 
flitted,  once  or  twice,  the  shadows  of  dancers. 
But  oh !  the  shadows  flitting  across  the  heart  of  the 
fair  mansion's  master ! 


84  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Old  Charlie,"  said  he,  gazing  fondly  at  his 
house,  "  you  and  me  is  both  old,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yass,"  said  the  stolid  Charlie. 

"  And  we  has  both  been  bad  enough  in  out* 
time,  eh,  Charlie  ?  " 

Charlie,  surprised  at  the  tender  tone,  repeated 
"Yass." 

"  And  you  and  me  is  mighty  close  ?  " 

"  Blame  close,  yass." 

"  But  you  never  know  me  to  cheat,  old  man ! " 

"  No," — impassively. 

"  And  do  you  think  I  would  cheat  you  now  ?  " 

"  I  dunno,"  said  Charlie.     "  I  don't  believe." 

"  Well,  old  man,  old  man," — his  voice  began 
to  quiver, — "  I  shan't  cheat  you  now.  My  God  ! 
— old  man,  I  tell  you — you  better  not  make  the 
trade  ! " 

"Because  for  what?"  asked  Charlie  in  plain 
anger  ;  but  both  looked  quickly  toward  the  house  ! 
The  Colonel  tossed  his  hands  wildly  in  the  air, 
rushed  forward  a  step  or  two,  and  giving  one  fear- 
ful scream  of  agony  and  fright,  fell  fonvard  on  his 
face  in  the  path.  Old  Charlie  stood  transfixed 
with  horror.  Belles  Demoiselles,  the  realm  of 
maiden  beauty,  the  home  of  merriment,  the  house 
of  dancing,  all  in  the  tremor  and  glow  of  pleasure, 
suddenly  sunk,  with  one  short,  wild  wail  of  terror 
— sunk,  sunk,  down,  down,  down,  into  the  merci- 
less, unfathomable  flood  of  the  Mississippi. 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         85 

Twelve  long  months  were  midnight  to  the  mind 
of  the  childless  father ;  when  they  were  only  half 
gone,  he  took  his  bed  ;  and  every  day,  and  every 
night,  old  Charlie,  the  "  low-down,"  the  "fool," 
watched  him  tenderly,  tended  him  lovingly,  for 
the  sake  of  his  name,  his  misfortunes,  and  his 
broken  heart.  No  woman's  step  crossed  the  floor 
of  the  sick-chamber,  whose  western  dormer-win- 
dows overpeered  the  dingy  architecture  of  old 
Charlie's  block  ;  Charlie  and  a  skilled  physician, 
the  one  all  interest,  the  other  all  gentleness,  hope, 
and  patience — these  only  entered  by  the  door  ;  but 
by  the  window  came  in  a  sweet-scented  evergreen 
vine,  transplanted  from  the  caving  bank  of  Belles 
Demoiselles.  It  caught  the  rays  of  sunset  in  its 
flowery  net  and  let  them  softly  in  upon  the  sick 
man's  bed  ;  gathered  the  glancing  beams  of  the 
moon  at  midnight,  and  often  wakened  the  sleeper 
to  look,  with  his  mindless  eyes,  upon  their  pretty 
silver  fragments  strewn  upon  the  floor. 

By  and  by  there  seemed — there  was — a  twink- 
ling dawn  of  returning  reason.  Slowly,  peace- 
fully, with  an  increase  unseen  from  day  to  day, 
the  light  of  reason  came  into  the  eyes,  and  speech 
became  coherent ;  but  withal  there  came  a  failing 
of  the  wrecked  body,  and  the  doctor  said  that 
monsieur  was  both  better  and  worse. 

One  evening,  as  Charlie  sat  by  the  vine-clad  win- 
dow with  his  fireless  pipe  in  his  hand,  the  old 


86  Old  Creole  Days. 

Colonel's  eyes  fell  full  upon  his  own,  and  rested 
there. 

"  Charl — ,"  he  said  with  an  effort,  and  his  de- 
lighted nurse  hastened  to  the  bed-side  and  bowed 
his  best  ear.  There  was  an  unsuccessful  effort  or 
two,  and  then  he  whispered,  smiling  with  sweet 
sadness, 

"We  didn't  trade." 

The  truth,  in  this  case,  was  a  secondary  matter 
to  Charlie  ;  the  main  point  was  to  give  a  pleasing 
answer.  So  he  nodded  his  head  decidedly,  as 
who  should  say — "  Oh  yes,  we  did,  it  was  a  bona- 
fide  swap  !  "  but  when  he  saw  the  smile  vanish,  he 
tried  the  other  expedient  and  shook  his  head  with 
still  more  vigor,  to  signify  that  they  had  not  so 
much  as  approached  a  bargain  ;  and  the  smile  re- 
turned. 

Charlie  wanted  to  see  the  vine  recognized.  He 
stepped  backward  to  the  window  with  a  broad 
smile,  shook  the  foliage,  nodded  and  looked  smart. 

"  I  know,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  beaming  eyes, 
" — many  weeks." 

The  next  day — 

"  Charl—" 

The  best  ear  went  down. 

"  Send  for  a  priest." 

The  priest  came,  and  was  alone  with  him  a 
whole  afternoon.  When  he  left,  the  patient  was 
very  haggard  and  exhausted,  but  smiled  and 


Belles  Demoiselles  Plantation.         87 

would  not  suffer  the  crucifix  to  be  removed  from 
his  breast. 

One  more  morning  came.  Just  before  dawn 
Charlie,  lying  on  a  pallet  in  the  room,  thought  he 
was  called,  and  came  to  the  bedside. 

"Old  man,"  whispered  the  failing  invalid,  "is 
it  caving  yet  ?  " 

Charlie  nodded. 

"  It  won't  pay  you  out." 

"  Oh  dat  makes  not'ing,"  said  Charlie.  Two 
big  tears  rolled  down  his  brown  face.  "  Dat 
makes  not'in." 

The  Colonel  whispered  once  more  : 

"  Mes  belles  demoiselles! — in  paradise; — in  the 
garden — I  shall  be  with  them  at  sunrise  ;  "  and  so 
it  was. 


88  Old  Creole  Days. 


JEAN-AH  POQUELIN. 

IN  the  first  decade  of  the  present  century,  when 
the  newly  established  American  Government  was 
the  most  hateful  thing  in  Louisiana — when  the 
Creoles  were  still  kicking  at  such  vile  innovations 
as  the  trial  by  jury,  American  dances,  anti-smug- 
gling laws,  and  the  printing  of  the  Governor's 
proclamation  in  English — when  the  Anglo-Ameri- 
can flood  that  was  presently  to  burst  in  a  crevasse 
of  immigration  upon  the  delta  had  thus  far  been 
felt  only  as  slippery  seepage  which  made  the 
Creole  tremble  for  his  footing — there  stood,  a  short 
distance  above  what  is  now  Canal-street,  and  con- 
siderably back  from  the  line  of  villas  which  fringed 
the  river-bank  on  Tchoupitoulas  Road,  an  old 
colonial  plantation-house  half  in  ruin. 

It  stood  aloof  from  civilization,  the  tracts  that 
had  once  been  its  indigo  fields  given  over  to  their 
first  noxious  wildness,  and  grown  up  into  one  of 
the  horridest  marshes  within  a  circuit  of  fifty  miles. 

The  house  was  of  heavy  cypress,  lifted  up  on 
pillars,  grim,  solid,  and  spiritless,  its  massive  build 
a  strong  reminder  of  days  still  earlier,  when  every 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  89 

man  had  been  his  own  peace  officer  and  the  insur- 
rection of  the  blacks  a  daily  contingency.  Its 
dark,  weather-beaten  roof  and  sides  were  hoisted 
up  above  the  jungly  plain  in  a  distracted  way,  like 
a  gigantic  ammunition-wagon  stuck  in  the  mud  and 
abandoned  by  some  retreating  army.  Around  it 
was  a  dense  growth  of  low  water  willows,  with  half 
a  hundred  sorts  of  thorny  or  fetid  bushes,  savage 
strangers  alike  to  the  "  language  of  flowers  "  and  to 
the  botanist's  Greek.  They  were  hung  with  count- 
less strands  of  discolored  and  prickly  smilax,  and  the 
impassable  mud  below  bristled  with  clievaux  defrise 
of  the  dwarf  palmetto.  Two  lone  forest-trees,  dead 
cypresses,  stood  in  the  center  of  the  marsh,  dotted 
with  roosting  vultures.  The  shallow  strips  of 
water  were  hid  by  myriads  of  aquatic  plants,  under 
whose  coarse  and  spiritless  flowers,  could  one  have 
seen  it,  was  a  harbor  of  reptiles,  great  and  small, 
to  make  one  shudder  to  the  end  of  his  days. 

The  house  was  on  a  slightly  raised  spot,  the 
levee  of  a  draining  canal.  The  waters  of  this 
canal  did  not  run  ;  they  crawled,  and  were  full  of 
big,  ravening  fish  and  alligators,  that  held  it  against 
all  comers. 

Such  was  the  home  of  old  Jean  Marie  Poquelin, 
once  an  opulent  indigo  planter,  standing  high  in 
the  esteem  of  his  small,  proud  circle  of  exclusively 
male  acquaintances  in  the  old  city  ;  now  a  hermit, 
alike  shunned  by  and  shunning  all  who  had  ever 


90  Old  Creole  Days. 

known  him.  "  The  last  of  his  line,"  said  the  gos- 
sips. His  father  lies  under  the  floor  of  the  St. 
Louis  Cathedral,  with  the  wife  of  his  youth  on  one 
side,  and  the  wife  of  his  old  age  on  the  other.  Old 
Jean  visits  the  spot  daily.  His  half-brother — alas  ! 
there  was  a  mystery  ;  no  one  knew  what  had  be- 
come of  the  gentle,  young  half-brother,  more  than 
thirty  years  his  junior,  whom  once  he  seemed  so 
fondly  to  love,  but  who,  seven  years  ago,  had  dis- 
appeared suddenly,  once  for  all,  and  left  no  clue 
of  his  fate. 

They  had  seemed  to  live  so  happily  in  each 
other's  love.  No  father,  mother,  wife  to  either, 
no  kindred  upon  earth.  The  elder  a  bold,  frank, 
impetuous,  chivalric  adventurer ;  the  younger  a 
gentle,  studious,  book-loving  recluse  ;  they  lived 
upon  the  ancestral  estate  like  mated  birds,  one 
always  on  the  wing,  the  other  always  in  the  nest. 

There  was  no  trait  in  Jean  Marie  Poquelin,  said 
the  old  gossips,  for  which  he  was  so  well  known 
among  his  few  friends  as  his  apparent  fondness  for 
his  "little  brother."  "Jacques  said  this,"  and 
"Jacques  said  that;"  he  "would  leave  this  or 
that,  or  anything  to  Jacques,"  for  "  Jacques  was  a 
scholar,"  and  "  Jacques  was  good,"  or  "  wise,"  or 
"just,"  or  "far-sighted,"  as  the  nature  of  the  case 
required  ;  and  "  he  should  ask  Jacques  as  soon  as 
he  got  home,"  since  Jacques  "was  never  elsewhere 
to  be  seen. 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  91 

It  was  between  the  roving  character  of  the  one 
brother,  and  the  bookishness  of  the  other,  that  the 
estate  fell  into  decay.  Jean  Marie,  generous  gen- 
tleman, gambled  the  slaves  away  one  by  one,  until 
none  was  left,  man  or  woman,  but  one  old  African 
mute. 

The  indigo-fields  and  vats  of  Louisiana  had  been 
generally  abandoned  as  unremunerative.  Certain 
enterprising  men  had  substituted  the  culture  of 
sugar  ;  but  while  the  recluse  was  too  apathetic  to 
take  so  active  a  course,  the  other  saw  larger,  and, 
at  thai  time,  equally  respectable  profits,  first  in 
smuggling,  and  later  in  the  African  slave-trade. 
What  harm  could  he  see  in  it  ?  The  whole  people 
said  it  was  vitally  necessary,  and  to  minister  to  a 
vital  public  necessity, — good  enough,  certainly, 
and  so  he  laid  up  many  a  doubloon,  that  made  him 
none  the  worse  in  the  public  regard. 

One  day  old  Jean  Marie  was  about  to  start  upon 
a  voyage  that  was  to  be  longer,  much  longer,  than 
any  that  he  had  yet  made.  Jacques  had  begged 
him  hard  for  many  days  not  to  go,  but  he  laughed 
him  off,  and  finally  said,  kissing  him  : 

"  Adieu  'tit  fr ere." 

"  No,"  said  Jacques,  "  I  shall  go  with  you." 

They  left  the  old  hulk  of  a  house  in  the  sole  care 
of  the  African  mute,  and  went  away  to  the  Guinea 
coast  together. 

Two  years  after,  old  Poquelin  came  home  with- 


92  Old  Creole  Days. 

out  his  vessel.  He  must  have  arrived  at  his  house 
by  night.  No  one  saw  him  come.  No  one  saw 
"  his  little  brother  ;  "  rumor  whispered  that  he, 
too,  had  returned,  but  he  had  never  been  seen 
again. 

A  dark  suspicion  fell  upon  the  old  slave-trader. 
No  matter  that  the  few  kept  the  many  reminded 
of  the  tenderness  that  had  ever  marked  his  bearing 
to  the  missing  man.  The  many  shook  their  heads. 
"  You  know  he  has  a  quick  and  fearful  temper  ;  " 
and  "  why  does  he  cover  his  loss  with  mystery  ?  " 
"  Grief  would  out  with  the  truth." 

"  But,"  said  the  charitable  few,  "  look  in  his 
face  ;  see  that  expression  of  true  humanity."  The 
many  did  look  in  his  face,  and,  as  he  looked  in 
theirs,  he  read  the  silent  question  :  "  Where  is  thy 
brother  Abel  ?  "  The  few  were  silenced,  his  former 
friends  died  off,  and  the  name  of  Jean  Marie  Po- 
quelin  became  a  symbol  of  witchery,  devilish 
crime,  and  hideous  nursery  fictions. 

The  man  and  his  house  were  alike  shunned.  The 
snipe  and  duck  hunters  forsook  the  marsh,  and  the 
woodcutters  abandoned  the  canal.  Sometimes  the 
hardier  boys  who  ventured  out  there  snake-shoot- 
ing heard  a  slow  thumping  of  oar-locks  on  the  canal. 
They  would  look  at  each  other  for  a  moment 
half  in  consternation,  half  in  glee,  then  rush  from 
their  sport  in  wanton  haste  to  assail  with  their 
gibes  the  unoffending,  withered  old  man  who,  in 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  93 

rusty  attire,  sat  in  the  stern  of  a  skiff,  rowed  home- 
ward by  his  white-headed  African  mute. 

"O  Jean-ah  Poquelin!  O  Jean-ah!  Jean-ah 
Poquelin  !  " 

It  was  not  necessary  to  utter  more  than  that. 
No  hint  of  wickedness,  deformity,  or  any  physical 
or  moral  demerit  ;  merely  the  name  and  the  tone 
of  mockery  :  "  Oh,  Jean-ah  Poquelin  !  "  and  while 
they  tumbled  one  over  another  in  their  needless 
haste  to  fly,  he  would  rise  carefully  from  his  seat, 
while  the  aged  mute,  with  downcast,  face  went  on 
rowing,  and  rolling  up  his  brown  fist  and  extend- 
ing it  toward  the  urchins,  would  pour  forth  such  an 
unholy  broadside  of  French  imprecation  and  invec- 
tive as- would  all  but  craze  them  with  delight. 

Among  both  blacks  and  whites  the  house  was  the 
object  of  a  thousand  superstitions.  Every  mid- 
night, they  affirmed,  the  feu  follet  came  out  of  the 
marsh  and  ran  in  and  out  of  the  rooms,  flashing 
from  window  to  window.  The  story  of  some  lads, 
whose  word  in  ordinary  statements  was  worthless, 
was  generally  credited,  that  the  night  they  camped 
in  the  woods,  rather  than  pass  the  place  after  dark, 
they  saw,  about  sunset,  every  window  blood-red, 
and  on  each  of  the  four  chimneys  an  owl  sitting, 
which  turned  his  head  three  times  round,  and 
moaned  and  laughed  with  a  human  voice.  There 
was  a  bottomless  well,  everybody  professed  to 
know,  beneath  the  sill  of  the  big  front  door  under 


94        -  Old  Creole  Days. 

the  rotten  veranda  ;  whoever  set  his  foot  upon  that 
threshold  disappeared  forever  in  the  depth  below. 

What  wonder  the  marsh  grew  as  wild  as  Africa  ! 
Take  all  the  Faubourg  St.  Marie,  and  half  the 
ancient  city,  you  would  not  find  one  graceless  dare- 
devil reckless  enough  to  pass  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  the  house  after  nightfall. 

The  alien  races  pouring  into  old  New  Orleans 
began  to  find  the  few  streets  named  for  the  Bour- 
bon princes  too  strait  for  them.  The  wheel  of 
fortune,  beginning  to  whir,  threw  them  off  beyond 
the  ancient  corporation  lines,  and  sowed  civilization 
and  even  trade  upon  the  lands  of  the  Graviers  and 
Girods.  Fields  became  roads,  roads  streets.  Every- 
where the  leveler  was  peering  through  his  glass, 
rodsmen  were  whacking  their  way  through  willow 
brakes  and  rose  hedges,  and  the  sweating  Irishmen 
tossed  the  blue  clay  up  with  their  long-handled 
shovels. 

"  Ha  !  that  is  all  very  well,"  quoth  the  Jean- 
Baptistes,  feeling  the  reproach  of  an  enterprise  that 
asked  neither  co-operation  nor  advice  of  them, 
"  but  wait  till  they  come  yonder  to  Jean  Poquelin's 
marsh;  ha!  ha!  ha!"  The  supposed  predica- 
ment so  delighted  them,  that  they  put  on  a  mock 
terror  and  whirled  about  in  an  assumed  stampede, 
then  caught  their  clasped  hands  between  their 
knee?  in  excess  of  mirth,  and  laughed  till  the  tears 
ran  ;  for  whether  the  street-makers  mired  in  the 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  95 

marsh,  or  contrived  to  cut  through  old  "  Jean-ah's ' 
property,  either  event  would  be  joyful.  Meantime 
a  line  of  tiny  rods,  with  bits  of  white  paper  in 
their  split  tops,  gradually  extended  its  way  straight 
through  the  haunted  ground,  and  crossed  the  canal 
diagonally. 

"  We  shall  fill  that  ditch,"  said  the  men  in  mud- 
boots,  and  brushed  close  along  the  chained  and 
padlocked  gate  of  the  haunted  mansion.  Ah, 
Jean-ah  Poquelin,  those  were  not  Creole  boys,  to 
be  stampeded  with  a  little  hard  swearing. 

He  went  to  the  Governor.  That  official  scanned 
the  odd  figure  with  no  slight  interest.  Jean  Poque- 
lin was  of  short,  broad  frame,  with  a  bronzed  leo- 
nine face.  His  brow  was  ample  and  deeply  fur- 
rowed. His  eye,  large  and  black,  was  bold  and 
open  like  that  of  a  war-horse,  and  his  jaws  shut 
together  with  the  firmness  of  iron.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  suit  of  Attakapas  cottonade,  and  his 
shirt  unbuttoned  and  thrown  back  from  the  throat 
and  bosom,  sailor-wise,  showed  a  herculean  breast, 
hard  and  grizzled.  There  was  no  fierceness  or 
defiance  in  his  look,  no  harsh  ungentleness,  no 
symptom  of  his  unlawful  life  or  violent  temper; 
but  rather  a  peaceful  and  peaceable  fearlessness. 
Across  the  whole  face,  not  marked  in  one  or  an- 
other feature,  but  as  it  were  laid  softly  upon  the 
countenance  like  an  almost  imperceptible  veil,  was 
the  imprint  of  some  great  grief.  A  careless  eye 


96  Old  Creole  Days. 

might  easily  overlook  it,  but,  once  seen,  there  it 
hung — faint,  but  unmistakable. 

The  Governor  bowed. 

"  Parlez-vous  Franqais  ?  "  asked  the  figure. 

"  I  would  rather  talk  English,  if  you  can  do  so," 
said  the  Governor. 

"  My  name,  Jean  Poquelin." 

"  How  can  I  serve  you,  Mr.  Poquelin  ?  " 

"  My  'ouse  is  yond'  ;  dans  le  marais  la-bas." 

The  Governor  bowed. 

"  Dat  marais  billong  to  me." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  To  me  ;  Jean  Poquelin  ;  I  hown  'im  meself." 

"Well,  sir?" 

"  He  don't  billong  to  you  ;  I  get  him  from  me 
father." 

"  That  is  perfectly  true,  Mr.  Poquelin,  as  far  as 
I  am  aware." 

"  You  want  to  make  strit  pass  yond'  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir  ;  it  is  quite  probable  ;  but 
the  city  will  indemnify  you  for  any  loss  you  may 
suffer — you  will  get  paid,  you  understand." 

"  Strit  can't  pass  dare." 

"  You  will  have  to  see  the  municipal  authorities 
about  that,  Mr.  Poquelin." 

A  bitter  smile  came  upon  the  old  man's  face  : 

"Pardon,  Monsieur,  you  is  not  le  Gouver- 
neurf" 

"Yes." 


Jean -ah  Poquelin.  97 

"Mais,  yes.  You  har  le  Gouverneur — yes. 
Veh-well.  I  come  to  you.  I  tell  you,  strit  can't 
pass  at  me  'ouse." 

"  But  you  will  have  to  see " 

"  I  come  to  you.  You  is  le  Gouverneur.  I 
know  not  the  new  laws.  I  ham  a  Fr-r-rench-a- 
man  !  Fr-rench-a-man  have  something  aller  au 
contraire — he  come  at  his  Gouverneur,  I  come  at 
you.  If  me  not  had  been  bought  from  me  king 
like  bossals  in  the  hold  time,  ze  king  gof — France 
would-a-show  Monsieur  le  Gouverneur  to  take  care 
his  men  to  make  strit  in  right  places.  Mais,  I 
know ;  we  billong  to  Monsieur  le  President.  I 
want  you  do  somesin  for  me,  eh  ?  " 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  the  patient  Governor. 

"  I  want  you  tell  Monsieur  le  President,  strit — 
can't — pass — at — me — 'ouse." 

"  Have  a  chair,  Mr.  Poquelin  ;  "  but  the  old 
man  did  not  stir.  The  Governor  took  a  quill  and 
wrote  a  line  to  a  city  official,  introducing  Mr. 
Poquelin,  and  asking  for  him  every  possible  cour- 
tesy. He  handed  it  to  him,  instructing  him  where 
to  present  it. 

"  Mr.  Poqualin,"  he  said,  with  a  conciliatory 
smile,  "  tell  me,  is  it  your  house  that  our  Creole 
citizens  tell  such  odd  stories  about  ?  "  . 

The  old  man  glared  sternly  upon  the  speaker, 
and  with  immovable  features  said  : 
.    "  You  don't  see  me  trade  some  Guinea  nigga'  ?  " 


98  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  You  don't  see  me  make  some  smugglin'  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  not  at  all." 

"  But,  I  am  Jean  Marie  Poquelin.  I  mine  me 
hown  bizniss.  Dat  all  right  ?  Adieu." 

He  put  his  hat  on  and  withdrew.  By  and  by  he 
stood,  letter  in  hand,  before  the  person  to  whom  it 
was  addressed.  This  person  employed  an  inter- 
preter. 

"  He  says,"  said  the  interpreter  to  the  officer, 
"  he  come  to  make  you  the  fair  warning  how  you 
muz  not  make  the  street  pas'  at  his  'ouse." 

The  officer  remarked  that  "  such  impudence  was 
refreshing  ;  "  but  the  experienced  interpreter  trans- 
lated freely. 

"  He  says  :  '  Why  you  don't  want  ?  '  "  said  the 
interpreter. 

The  old  slave-trader  answered  at  some  length. 

"  He  says,"  said  the  interpreter,  again  turning 
to  the  officer,  "  the  marass  is  a  too  unhealth'  for 
peopl'  to  live." 

"  But  we  expect  to  drain  his  old  marsh  ;  it's  not 
going  to  be  a  marsh." 

"  //  dit —  The  interpreter*  explained  in 

French. 

The  old  man  answered  tersely. 

"  He  says  the  canal  is  a  private,"  said  the  inter- 
preter. 

"Oh!    that  old  ditch;    that's  to  be  filled  up. 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  99 

Tell  the  old  man  we're  going  to  fix  him  up 
nicely."  • 

Translation  being  duly  made,  the  man  in  power 
was  amused  to  see  a  thunder-cloud  gathering  on 
the  old  man's  face. 

"  Tell  him,"  he  added,  "  by  the  time  we  finish, 
there'll  not  be  a  ghost  left  in  his  shanty." 

The  interpreter  began  to  translate,  but 

"  Je'  comprends,  Je'  comprends"  said  the  old 
man,  with  an  impatient  gesture,  and  burst  forth, 
pouring  curses  upon  the  United  States,  the  Presi- 
dent, the  Territory  of  Orleans,  Congress,  the  Gov- 
ernor and  all  his  subordinates,  striding  out  of  the 
apartment  as  he  cursed,  while  the  object  of  his 
maledictions  roared  with  merriment  and  rammed 
the  floor  with  his  foot. 

"Why,  it  will  make  his  old  place  worth  ten 
dollars  to  one,"  said  the  official  to  the  interpre- 
ter. 

"  'Tis  not  for  de  worse  of  de  property,"  said  the 
interpreter. 

"  I  should  guess  not,"  said  the  other,  whittling 
his  chair, — "seems  to  me  as  if  some  of  these  old 
Creoles  would  liever  live  in  a  crawfish  hole  than  to 
have  a  neighbor." 

"You  know  what  make  old  Jean  Poquelin  make 
like  that  ?  I  will  tell  you.  You  know " 

The  interpreter  was  rolling  a  cigarette,  and 
paused  to  light  his  tinder;  then,  as  the  smoke 


ioo  Old  Creole  Days. 

poured  in  a  thick  double  stream  from  his  nostrils, 
he  said,  in  a  solemn  whisper  : 

"  He  is  a  witch." 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho  !  "  laughed  the  other. 

"You  don't  believe  it?  What  you  want  to 
bet  ?  "  cried  the  interpreter,  jerking  himself  half 
up  and  thrusting  out  one  arm  while  he  bared  it  of 
its  coat-sleeve  with  the  hand  of  the  other.  "What 
you  want  to  bet  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  asked  the  official. 

"  Dass  what  I  goin'  to  tell  you.  You  know,  one 
evening  I  was  shooting  some  grosbec.  I  killed 
three  ;  but  I  had  trouble  to  fine  them,  it  was  be- 
coming so  dark.  When  I  have  them  I  start'  to 
come  home  ;  then  I  got  to  pas'  at  Jean  Poquelin's 
house." 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho  !  "  laughed  the  other,  throwing  his 
leg  over  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  Wait,"  said  the  interpreter.  "I  come  along 
slow,  not  making  some  noises  ;  still,  still " 

"  And  scared,"  said  the  smiling  one. 

"  Mais,  wait.  I  get  all  pas'  the  'ouse.  'Ah!' 
I  say  ;  '  all  right ! '  Then  I  see  two  thing'  before  ! 
Hah  !  I  get  as  cold  and  humide,  and  shake  like  a 
leaf.  You  think  it  was  nothing  ?  There  I  see,  so 
plain  as  can  be  (though  it  was  making  nearly  dark), 
I  see  Jean — Marie — Po-que-lin  walkin'  right  in 
front,  and  right  there  beside  of  him  was  something 
like  a  man — but  not  a  man — white  like  paint ! — I 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  101 

dropp'  on  the  grass  from  scared — they  pass* ;  so 
sure  as  I  live  'twas  the  ghos'  of  Jacques  Poquelin, 
his  brother  !  " 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  the  listener. 

"  I'll  put  my  han'  in  the  fire,"  said  the  inter- 
preter. 

"  But  did  you  never  think,"  asked  the  other, 
"  that  that  might  be  Jack  Poquelin,  as  you  call 
him,  alive  and  well,  and  for  some  cause  hid  away 
by  his  brother  ?  " 

"  But  there  har'  no  cause!  "  said  the  other,  and 
the  entrance  of  third  parties  changed  the  subject. 

Some  months  passed  and  the  street  was  opened. 
A  canal  was  first  dug  through  the  marsh,  the  small 
one  which  passed  so  close  to  Jean  Poquelin's  house 
was  filled,  and  the  street,  or  rather  a  sunny  road, 
just  touched  a  corner  of  the  old  mansion's  door- 
yard.  The  morass  ran  dry.  Its  venomous  deni- 
zens slipped  away  through  the  bulrushes  ;  the  cat- 
tle roaming  freely  upon  its  hardened  surface  tram- 
pled the  superabundant  undergrowth.  The  bel- 
lowing frogs  croaked  to  westward.  Lilies  and  the 
flower-de-luce  sprang  up  in  the  place  of  reeds ; 
smilax  and  poison-oak  gave  way  to  the  purple- 
plumed  iron-weed  and  pink  spiderwort  ;  the  bind- 
weeds ran  everywhere  blooming  as  they  ran, 
and  on  one  of  the  dead  cypresses  a  giant  creeper 
hung  its  green  burden  of  foliage  and  lifted  its 
^scarlet  trumpets.  Sparrows  and  red-birds  flittered 


IO2  Old  Creole  Days. 

through  the  bushes,  and  dewberries  grew  ripe  be- 
neath. Over  all  these  came  a  sweet,  dry  smell  of 
salubrity  which  the  place  had  not  known  since  the 
sediments  of  the  Mississippi  first  lifted  it  from  the 
sea. 

But  its  owner  did  not  build.  Over  the  willow- 
brakes,  and  down  the  vista  of  the  open  street, 
bright  new  houses,  some  singly,  some  by  ranks, 
were  prying  in  upon  the  old  man's  privacy.  They 
even  settled  down  toward  his  southern  side.  First 
a  wood-cutter's  hut  or  two,  then  a  market  garden- 
er's shanty,  then  a  painted  cottage,  and  all  at  once 
the  faubourg  had  flanked  and  half  surrounded  him 
and  his  dried-tip  marsh. 

Ah  !  then  the  common  people  began  to  hate 
him.  "  The  old  tyrant  !  "  "  You  don't  mean  an 
old  tyrant  ?  "  "Well,  then,  why  don't  he  build 
when  the  public  need  demands  it  ?  What  does  he 
live  in  that  unneighborly  way  for?"  "The  old 
pirate!"  "The  old  kidnapper!"  How  easily 
even  the  most  ultra  Louisianians  put  on  the  impor- 
tant virtues  of  the  North  when  they  could  be 
brought  to  bear  against  the  hermit.  "There  he 
goes,  with  the  boys  after  him  !  Ah  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
Jean-ah  Poquelin  !  Ah  !  Jean-ah  !  Aha  !  aha  ! 
Jean-ah  Maria  !  Jean-ah  Poquelin  !  The  old  vil- 
lain !  "  How  merrily  the  swarming  Americains 
echo  the  spirit  of  persecution  !  "  The  old  fraud," 
they  say  " — pretends  to  live  in  a  haunted  house, 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  103 

does  he  ?  We'll  tar  and  feather  him  some  day. 
Guess  we  can  fix  him." 

He  cannot  be  rowed  home  along  the  old  canal 
now  ;  he  walks.  He  has  broken  sadly  of  late,  and 
the  street  urchins  are  ever  at  his  heels.  It  is  like 
the  days  when  they  cried:  "Go  up,  thou  bald- 
head,"  and  the  old  man  now  and  then  turns  and 
delivers  ineffectual  curses. 

To  the  Creoles — to  the  incoming  lower  class  of 
superstitious  Germans,  Irish,  Sicilians,  and  others 
— he  became  an  omen  and  embodiment  of  public 
and  private  ill-fortune.  Upon  him  all  the  vagaries 
of  their  superstitions  gathered  and  grew.  If  a 
house  caught  fire,  it  was  imputed  to  his  machina- 
tions. Did  a  woman  go  off  in  a  fit,  he  had  be- 
witched her.  Did  a  child  stray  off  for  an  hour,  the 
mother  shivered  with  the  apprehension  that  Jean 
Poquelin  had  offered  him  to  strange  gods.  The 
house  was  the  subject  of  every  bad  boy's  invention 
who  loved  to  contrive  ghostly  lies.  "  As  long  as 
that  house  stands  we  shall  have  bad  luck.  Do  you 
not  see  our  peas  and  beans  dying,  our  cabbages 
and  lettuce  going  to  seed  and  our  gardens  turning 
to  dust,  while  every  day  you  can  see  it  raining  in 
the  woods  ?  The  rain  will  never  pass  old  Poque- 
lin's  house.  He  keeps  a  fetich.  He  has  conjured 
the  whole  Faubourg  St.  Marie.  And  why,  the  old 
wretch  ?  Simply  because  our  playful  and  innocent 
children  call  after  him  as  he  passes." 


IO4  Old  Creole  Days. 

A  "  Building  and  Improvement  Company," 
which  had  not  yet  got  its  charter,  "  but  was  going 
to,"  and  which  had  not,  indeed,  any  tangible  capi- 
tal yet,  but  "  was  going  to  have  some,"  joined  the 
"  Jean-ah  Poquelin  "  war.  The  haunted  property 
would  be  such  a  capital  site  for  a  market-house  ! 
They  sent  a  deputation  to  the  old  mansion  to  ask 
its  occupant  to  sell.  The  deputation  never  got  be- 
yond the  chained  gate  and  a  very  barren  interview 
with  the  African  mute.  The  President  of  the  Board 
was  then  empowered  (for  he  had  studied  French  in 
Pennsylvania  and  was  considered  qualified)  to  call 
and  persuade  M.  Poquelin  to  subscribe  to  the  com- 
pany's stock  ;  but — 

"  Fact  is,  gentlemen,"  he  said  at  the  next  meet- 
ing, "it  would  take  us  at  least  twelve  months  to 
make  Mr.  Pokaleen  understand  the  rather  original 
features  of  our  system,  and  he  wouldn't  subscribe 
when  we'd  done  ;  besides,  the  only  way  to  see  him 
is  to  stop  him  on  the  street." 

There  was  a  great  laugh  from  the  Board  ;  they 
couldn't  help  it.  "  Better  meet  a  bear  robbed  of 
her  whelps,"  said  one. 

"  You're  mistaken  as  to  that,"  said  the  President. 
"  I  did  meet  him  and  stopped  him,  and  found  him 
quite  polite.  But  I  could  get  no  satisfaction  from 
him  ;  the  fellow  wouldn't  talk  in  French,  and  when 
I  spoke  in  English  he  hoisted  his  old  shoulders  up, 
and  gave  the  same  answer  to  everything  I  said." 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  105 

"  And  that  was —  ?  "  asked  one  or  two,  impa- 
tient of  the  pause. 

"  That  it  '  don't  worse  w'ile  ?  '  " 

One  of  the  Board  said  :  "  Mr.  President,  this 
market-house  project,  as  I  take  it,  is  not  altogether 
a  selfish  one  ;  the  community  is  to  be  benefited 
by  it.  We  may  feel  that  we  are  working  in  the 
public  interest  [the  Board  smiled  knowingly],  if  we 
employ  all  possible  means  to  oust  this  old  nuisance 
from  among  us.  You  may  know  that  at  the  time 
the  street  was  cut  through,  this  old  Poquelann  did 
all  he  could  to  prevent  it.  It  was  owing  to  a  cer- 
tain connection  which  I  had  with  that  affair  that  I 
heard  a  ghost  story  [smiles,  followed  by  a  sudden 
dignified  check] — ghost  story,  which,  of  course,  I 
am  not  going  to  relate  ;  but  I  may  say  that  my 
profound  conviction,  arising  from  a  prolonged 
study  of  that  story,  is,  that  this  old  villain,  John 
Poquelann,  has  his  brother  locked  up  in  that  old 
house.  Now,  if  this  is  so,  and  we  can  fix  it  on  him, 
I  merely  suggest  that  we  can  make  the  matter 
highly  useful.  I  don't  know,"  he  added,  begin- 
ning to  sit  down,  "  but  that  it  is  an  action  we  owe 
to  the  community — hem  !  " 

"  How  do  you  propose  to  handle  the  subject  ?  " 
asked  the  President. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  the  speaker,  "  that,  as  a 
Board  of  Directors,  it  would  be  unadvisable  for  us 
to  authorize  any  action  involving  trespass  ;  but  if 


lo6  Old  Creole  Days. ' 

you,  for  instance,  Mr.  President,  should,  as  it  were, 
for  mere  curiosity,  request  some  one,  as,  for  in- 
stance, our  excellent  Secretary,  simply  as  a  per- 
sonal favor,  to  look  into  the  matter  ;  this  is  merely 
a  suggestion." 

The  Secretary  smiled  sufficiently  to  be  under- 
stood that,  while  he  certainly  did  not  consider  such 
preposterous  service  a  part  of  his  duties  as  secre- 
tary, he  might,  notwithstanding,  accede  to  the 
President's  request  ;  and  the  Board  adjourned. 

Little  White,  as  the  Secretary  was  called,  was  a 
mild,  kind-hearted  little  man,  who,  nevertheless, 
had  no  fear  of  anything,  unless  it  was  the  fear  of 
being  unkind. 

"  I  tell  you  frankly,"  he  privately  said  to  the 
President,  "  I  go  into  this  purely  for  reasons  of  my 
own." 

The  next  day,  a  little  after  nightfall,  one  might 
have  descried  this  little  man  slipping  along  the  rear 
fence  of  the  Poquelin  place,  preparatory  to  vault- 
ing over  into  the  rank,  grass-grown  yard,  and  bear- 
ing himself  altogether  more  after  the  manner  of  a 
collector  of  rare  chickens  than  according  to  the 
usage  of  secretaries. 

The  picture  presented  to  his  eye  was  not  calcu- 
lated to  enliven  his  mind.  The  old  mansion  stood 
out  against  the  western  sky,  black  and  silent.  One 
long,  lurid  pencil-stroke  along  a  sky  of  slate  was 
all  that  was  left  of  daylight.  No  sign  of  life  was 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  107 

apparent ;  no  light  at  any  window,  unless  it  might 
have  been  on  the  side  of  the  house  hidden  from 
view.  No  owls  were  on  the  chimneys,  no  dogs 
were  in  the  yard. 

He  entered  the  place,  and  ventured  up  behind  a 
small  cabin  which  stood  apart  from  the  house. 
Through  one  of  its  many  crannies  he  easily  detected 
the  African  mute  crouched  before  a  flickering  pine 
knot,  his  head  on  his  knees,  fast  asleep. 

He  concluded  to  enter  the  mansion,  and,  with 
that  view,  stood  and  scanned  it.  The  broad  rear 
steps  of  the  veranda  would  not  serve  him  ;  he 
might  meet  some  one  midway.  He  was  measur- 
ing, with  his  eye,  the  proportions  of  one  of  the  pil- 
lars which  supported  it,  and  estimating  the  practi- 
cability of  climbing  it,  when  he  heard  a  footstep. 
Some  one  dragged  a  chair  out  toward  the  railing, 
then  seemed  to  change  his  mind  and  began  to  pace 
the  veranda,  his  footfalls  resounding  on  the  dry 
boards  with  singular  loudness.  Little  White 
drew  a  step  backward,  got  the  figure  between 
himself  and  the  sky,  and  at  once  recognized  the 
short,  broad-shouldered  form  of  old  Jean  Po- 
quelin. 

He  sat  down  upon  a  billet  of  wood,  and,  to 
escape  the  stings  of  a  whining  cloud  of  mosquitoes, 
shrouded  his  face  and  neck  in  his  handkerchief, 
leaving  his  eyes  uncovered. 

-He  had  sat  there  but  a  moment  when  he  noticed 


io8  Old  Creole  Days. 

a  strange,  sickening  odor,  faint,  as  if  coming  from 
a  distance,  but  loathsome  and  horrid. 

Whence  could  it  come  ?  Not  from  the  cabin  ; 
not  from  the  marsh,  for  it  was  as  dry  as  powder. 
It  was  not  in  the  air  ;  it  seemed  to  come  from  the 
ground. 

Rising  up,  he  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  a  few 
steps  before  him  a  narrow  footpath  loading  toward 
the  house.  He  glanced  down  it — ha  !  right  there 
was  some  one  coming — ghostly  white  ! 

Quick  as  thought,  and  as  noiselessly,  he  lay 
down  at  full  length  against  the  cabin.  It  was  bold 
strategy,  and  yet,  there  was  no  denying  it,  little 
White  felt  that  he  was  frightened.  "It  is  not  a 
ghost,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  know  it  cannot  be 
a  ghost ;  "  but  the  perspiration  burst  out  at  every 
pore,  and  the  air  seemed  to  thicken  with  heat. 
"  It  is  a  living  man,"  he  said  in  his  thoughts. 
"  I  hear  his  footstep,  and  I  hear  old  Poquelin's 
footsteps,  too,  separately,  over  on  the  veranda.  I 
am  not  discovered  ;  the  thing  has  passed  ;  there  is 
that  odor  again  ;  what  a  smell  of  death  !  Is  it 
coming  back  ?  Yes.  It  stops  at  the  door  of  the 
cabin.  Is  it  peering  in  at  the  sleeping  mute  ?  It 
moves  away.  It  is  in  the  path  again.  Now  it  is 
gone."  He  shuddered.  "  Now,  if  I  dare  venture, 
the  mystery  is  solved."  He  rose  cautiously,  close 
against  the  cabin,  and  peered  along  the  path. 

The  figure  of  a  man,  a  presence  ii  not  a  body — 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  109 

but  whether  clad  in  some  white  stuff  or  naked  the 
darkness  would  not  allow  him  to  determine — had 
turned,  and  now,  with  a  seeming  painful  gait, 
moved  slowly  from  him.  "  Great  Heaven  !  can  it 
be  that  the  dead  do  walk  ?  "  He  withdrew  again 
the  hands  which  had  gone  to  his  eyes.  The  dread- 
ful object  passed  between  two  pillars  and  under  the 
house.  He  listened.  There  was  a  faint  sound  as 
of  feet  upon  a  staircase  ;  then  all  was  still  except 
the  measured  tread  of  Jean  Poquelin  walking  on 
the  veranda,  and  the  heavy  respirations  of  the  mute 
slumbering  in  the  cabin. 

The  little  Secretary  was  about  to  retreat ;  but  as 
he  looked  once  more  toward  the  haunted  house  a 
dim  light  appeared  in  the  crack  of  a  closed  window, 
and  presently  old  Jean  Poquelin  came,  dragging 
his  chair,  and  sat  down  close  against  the  shining 
cranny.  He  spoke  in  a  low,  tender  tone  in  the 
French  tongue,  making  some  inquiry.  An  answer 
came  from  within.  Was  it  the  voice  of  a  human  ? 
So  unnatural  was  it — so  hollow,  so  discordant,  so 
unearthly — that  the  stealthy  listener  shuddered 
again  from  head  to  foot  ;  and  when  something 
stirred  in  some  bushes  near  by — though  it  may 
have  been  nothing  more  than  a  rat — and  came 
scuttling  through  the  grass,  the  little  Secretary 
actually  turned  and  fled.  As  he  left  the  inclosure 
he  moved  with  bolder  leisure  through  the  bushes  ; 
yet  Jiow  and  then  he  spoke  aloud:  "Oh,  oh! 


no  Old  Creole  Days. 

I  see,  I  understand  !  "  and  shut  his  eyes  in  his 
hands. 

How  strange  that  henceforth  little  White  was 
the  champion  of  Jean  Poquelin  !  In  season  and 
out  of  season  —  wherever  a  word  was  uttered 
against  him — the  Secretary,  with  a  quiet,  aggres- 
sive force  that  instantly  arrested  gossip,  demanded 
upon  what  authority  the  statement  or  conjecture 
was  made  ;  but  as  he  did  not  condescend  to  explain 
his  own  remarkable  attitude,  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore the  disrelish  and  suspicion  which  had  followed 
Jean  Poquelin  so  many  years  fell  also  upon  him. 

It  was  only  the  next  evening  but  one  after  his 
adventure  that  he  made  himself  a  source  of  sullen 
amazement  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  boys,  by  or- 
dering them  to  desist  from  their  wanton  hallooing. 
Old  Jean  Poquelin,  standing  and  shaking  his  cane, 
rolling  out  his  long-drawn  maledictions,  paused 
and  stared,  then  gave  the  Secretary  a  courteous 
bow  and  started  on.  The  boys,  save  one,  from 
pure  astonishment,  ceased ;  but  a  ruffianly  little 
Irish  lad,  more  daring  than  any  had  yet  been, 
threw  a  big  hurtling  clod,  that  struck  old  Poquelin 
between  the  shoulders  and  burst  like  a  shell.  The 
enraged  old  man  wheeled  with  uplifted  staff  to 
give  chase  to  the  scampering  vagabond  ;  and — he 
may  have  tripped,  or  he  may  not,  but  he  fell  full 
length.  Little  White  hastened  to  help  him  up, 
but  he  waved  him  off  with  a  fierce  imprecation, 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  in 

and  staggering  to  his  feet  resumed  his  way  home- 
ward. His  lips  were  reddened  with  blood.  . 

Little  White  was  on  his  way  to  the  meeting  of 
the  Board.  He  would  have  given  all  he  dared 
spend  to  have  stayed  away,  for  he  felt  both  too 
fierce  and  too  tremulous  to  brook  the  criticisms 
that  were  likely  to  be  made. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  gentlemen  ;  I  can't  help  you  to 
make  a  case  against  the  old  man,  and  I'm  not  going 
to." 

"We  did  not  expect  this  disappointment,  Mr. 
White." 

"I  can't  help  that,  sir.  No,  sir;  you  had 
better  not  appoint  any  more  investigations.  Some- 
body'll  investigate  himself  into  trouble.  No,  sir  ; 
it  isn't  a  threat,  it  is  only  my  advice,  but  I  warn 
you  that  whoever  takes  the  task  in  hand  will 
rue  it  to  his  dying  day — which  may  be  hastened, 
too." 

The  President  expressed  himself  "  surprised." 

"  I  don't  care  a  rush,"  answered  little  White, 
wildly  and  foolishly.  "  I  don't  care  a  rush  if 
you  are,  sir.  No,  my  nerves  are  not  disordered  ; 
my  head's  as  clear  as  a  bell.  No,  I'm  not  excited." 

A  Director  remarked  that  the  Secretary  looked 
as  though  he  had  waked  from  a  nightmare. 

"  Well,  sir,  if  you  want  to  know  the  fact,  I  have  ; 
and  if  you  choose  to  cultivate  old  Poquelin's  society 
you. can  have  one,  too." 


1 1 2  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  White,"  called  a  facetious  member,  but  White 
did  not  notice.  "  White,"  he  called  again. 

"  What  ?  "  demanded  White,  with  a  scowl. 

"  Did  you  see  the  ghost  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir  ;  I  did,"  cried  White,  hitting  the  table, 
and  handing  the  President  a  paper  which  brought 
the  Board  to  other  business. 

The  story  got  among  the  gossips  that  somebody 
(they  were  afraid  to  say  little  White)  had  been  to 
the  Poquelin  mansion  by-night  and  beheld  some- 
thing appalling.  The  rumor  was  but  a  shadow  of 
the  truth,  magnified  and  distorted  as  is  the  manner 
of  shadows.  He  had  seen  skeletons  walking,  and 
had  barely  escaped  the  clutches  of  one  by  making 
the  sign  of  the  cross. 

Some  madcap  boys  with  an  appetite  for  the  hor- 
rible plucked  up  courage  to  venture  through  the 
dried  marsh  by  the  cattle-path,  and  come  before 
the  house  at  a  spectral  hour  when  the  air  was  full 
of  bats.  Something  which  they  but  half  saw — 
half  a  sight  was  enough — sent  them  tearing  back 
through  the  willow-brakes  and  acacia  bushes  tc 
their  homes,  where  they  fairly  dropped  down,  and 
cried  : 

"Was  it  white?"  "No — yes — nearly  so — we 
can't  tell — but  we  saw  it."  And  one  could  hardly 
doubt,  to  look  at  their  ashen  faces,  that  they  had, 
whatever  it  was. 

"  Jf  that  old  rascal  lived  in  the  country  we  come 


Jcan-ah  Poquelin.  113 

from,"  said  certain  Americains,  "he'd  have  been 
tarred  and  feathered  before  now,  wouldn't  he,  San- 
ders ?  " 

"  Well,  now  he  just  would." 

"  And  we'd  have  rid  him  on  a  rail,  wouldn't 
we  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  allow." 

"Tell  you  what  you  could  do."  They  were 
talking  to  some  rollicking  Creoles  who  had  as- 
sumed an  absolute  necessity  for  doing  something. 
"  What  is  it  you  call  this  thing  where  an  old  man 
marries  a  young  girl,  and  you  come  out  with 
horns  and — " 

"  Charivari?  "  asked  the  Creoles. 

"  Yes.  that's  it.  Why  don't  you  shivaree  him  ?  " 
Felicitous  suggestion. 

Little  White,  with  his  wife  beside  him,  was  sit- 
ting on  their  doorsteps  on  the  sidewalk,  as  Creole 
custom  had  taught  them,  looking  toward  the  sun- 
set. They  had  moved  into  the  lately-opened 
street.  The  view  was  not  attractive  on  the  score 
of  beauty.  The  houses  were  small  and  scattered, 
and  across  the  flat  commons,  spite  of  the  lofty  tan- 
gle of  weeds  and  bushes,  and  spite  of  the  thickets 
of  acacia,  they  needs  must  see  the  dismal  old 
Poquelin  mansion,  tilted  awry  and  shutting  out  the 
declining  sun.  The  moon,  white  and  slender,  was 
hanging  the  tip  of  its  horn  over  one  of  the  chim- 
neys. 


114  Old  Creole  Days. 

"And  you  say,"  said  the  Secretary,  "the  old 
black  man  has  been  going  by  here  alone  ?  Patty, 
suppose  old  Poquelin  should  be  concocting  some 
mischief;  he  don't  lack  provocation  ;  the  way  that 
clod  hit  him  the  other  day  was  enough  to  have 
killed  him.  Why,  Patty,  he  dropped  as  quick  as 
that  !  No  wonder  you  haven't  seen  him.  I  won- 
der if  they  haven't  heard  something  about  him  up 
at  the  drug-store.  Suppose  I  go  and  see." 

"  Do,"  said  his  wife. 

She  sat  alone  for  half  an  hour,  watching  that 
sudden  going-  out  of  the  day  peculiar  to  the  lati- 
tude. 

"That  moon  is  ghost  enough  for  one  house," 
she  said,  as  her  husband  returned.  "  It  has  gone 
right  down  the  chimney." 

"  Patty,"  said  little  White,  "  the  drug-clerk  says 
the  boys  are  going  to  shivaree  old  Poquelin  to- 
night. I'm  going  to  try  to  stop  it." 

"Why,  White,"  said  hjs  wife,  "you'd  better 
not.  You'll  get  hurt." 

"No,  I'll  not." 

"  Yes,  you  will." 

"  I'm  going  to  sit  out  here  until  they  come  along, 
7'hey're  compelled  to  pass  right  by  here." 

"Why,  White,  it  may  be  midnight  before 
they  start ;  you're  not  going  to  sit  out  here  tijj 
then." 

"Yes,  lam/' 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  115 

"  Well,  you're  very  foolish,"  said  Mrs.  White  in 
an  undertone,  looking  anxious,  and  tapping  one  of 
the  steps  with  her  foot. 

They  sat  a  very  long  time  talking  over  little  fam- 
ily matters. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  at  last  said  Mrs.  White. 

"That's  the  nine  o'clock  gun,"  said  White,  and 
they  relapsed  into  a  long-sustained,  drowsy  silence. 

"  Patty,  you'd  better  go  in  and  go  to  bed,"  said 
he  at  last. 

"  I'm  not  sleepy." 

"Well,  you're  very  foolish,"  quietly  remarked 
little  White,  and  again  silence  fell  upon  them. 

"  Patty,  suppose  I  walk  out  to  the  old  house  and 
see  if  I  can  find  out  anything." 

"  Suppose,"  said  she,  "  you  don't  do  any  such — 
listen  !  " 

Down  the  street  arose  a  great  hubbub.  Dogs 
and  boys  were  howling  and  barking  ;  men  were 
laughing,  shouting,  groaning,  and  blowing  horns, 
whooping,  and  clanking  cow-bells,  whinnying,  and 
howling,  and  rattling  pots  and  pans. 

"They  are  coming  this  way,"  said  little  White. 
"  You  had  better  go  into  the  house,  Patty." 

"  So  had  you." 

"  No.     I'm  going  to  see  if  I  can't  stop  them." 

"Why,  White!" 

"  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  said  White,  and  went 
toward  the  noise. 


1 16  Old  Creole  Days. 

In  a  few  moments  the  little  Secretary  met  the 
mob.  The  pen  hesitates  on  the  word,  for  there  is 
a  respectable  difference,  measurable  only  on  the 
scale  of  the  half  century,  between  a  mob  and  a 
charivari.  Little  White  lifted  his  ineffectual  voice. 
He  faced  the  head  of  the  disorderly  column,  and 
cast  himself  about  as  if  he  were  made  of  wood  and 
moved  by  the  jerk  of  a  string.  He  rushed  to  one 
who  seemed,  from  the  size  and  clatter  of  his  tin 
pan,  to  be  a  leader.  "  Stop  these  fellows,  Bien- 
venu, stop  them  just  a  minute,  till  I  tell  tJicm 
something"  Bienvenu  turned  and  brandished  his 
instruments  of  discord  in  an  imploring  way  to  the 
crowd.  They  slackened  their  pace,  two  or  three 
hushed  their  horns  and  joined  the  prayer  of  little 
White  and  Bienvenu  for  silence.  The  throng  halted. 
The  hush  was  delicious. 

"Bienvenu,"  said  little  White,  "don't  shivaree 
old  Poquelin  to-night ;  he's — 

"  My  fwang,"  said  the  swaying  Bienvenu,  "  who 
tail  you  I  goin'  to  chahivahi  somebody,  eh  ?  You 
sink  bickause  I  make  a  little  playfool  wiz  zis  tin  pan 
zat  I  am  dhonk  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Bienvenu,  old  fellow,  you're  all  right. 
I  was  afraid  you  might  not  know  that  old  Poquelin 
was  sick,  you  know,  but  you're  not  going  there, 
are  you  ?  " 

"  My  fwang,  I  vay  soy  to  tail  you  zat  you  ah 
dhonk  as  de  dev'.  I  am  sJiem  of  you.  I  ham  ze  ser 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  117 

van'  of  zz  publique.  Zese  citoyens  goin'  to  wick  west 
Jean  Poquelin  to  give  to  the  Ursuline  two  hondred 
fifty  dolla'  — " 

"  He  quoif"  cried  a  listener,  "  Cinq  cent  pias- 
tres, oui  !  " 

"  Oui  !  "  said  Bienvenu,  "  and  if  he  wiffuse  we 
make  him  some  lit'  musique ;  ta-ra-ta  !  "  He 
hoisted  a  merry  hand  and  foot,  then  frowning, 
added  :  "  Old  Poquelin  got  no  bizniz  dhink  s'much 
w'isky." 

"  But,  gentlemen,"  said  little  White,  around 
whom  a  circle  had  gathered,  "  the  old  man  is  very 
sick." 

"  My  faith  !  "  cried  a  tiny  Creole,  "  we  did  not 
make  him  to  be  sick.  Wen  we  have  say  we  going 
make  le  charivari,  do  you  want  that  we  hall  tell  a 
lie  ?  My  faith  !  'sfools  !  " 

"  But  you  can  shivaree  somebody  else,"  said 
desperate  little  White. 

"  Oui!"  cried  Bienvenu,  "  et  chaJiivalii  Jean- 
ah  Poquelin  tomo'w  !  " 

"  Let  us  go  to  Madame  Schneider  !  "  cried  two 
or  three,  and  amid  huzzahs  and  confused  cries, 
among  which  was  heard  a  stentorian  Celtic  call  foi 
drinks,  the  crowd  again  began  to  move. 

"  Cent  piastres  pour  I'  Jwpital  de  cJiarite  !  " 

"  Hurrah  !  " 

"  One  hongrec!  dolla'  for  Charity  Hospital!  " 
•     "  Hurrah  !  " 


1 1 8  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Whang  !  "  went  a  tin  pan,  the  crowd  yelled, 
and  Pandemonium  gaped  again.  They  were  off 
at  a  right  angle. 

Nodding,  Mrs.  White  looked  at  the  mantel- 
clock. 

"  Well,  if  it  isn't  away  after  midnight." 

The  hideous  noise  down  street  was  passing  be- 
yond earshot.  She  raised  a  sash  and  listened. 
For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  Some  one  came 
to  the  door. 

"  Is  that  you,  White  ?" 

"  Yes."     He  entered.      "  I  succeeded,  Patty." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  said  Patty,  joyfully. 

"  Yes.  They've  gone  down  to  shivaree  the  old 
Dutchwoman  who  married  her  step-daughter's 
sweetheart.  They  say  she  has  got  to  pay  $100  to 
the  hospital  before  they  stop." 

The  couple  retired,  and  Mrs.  White  slumbered. 
She  was  awakened  by  her  husband  snapping  the 
lid  of  his  watch. 

"  What  time  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Half-past  three.  Patty,  I  haven't  slept  a 
wink.  Those  fellows  are  out  yet.  Don't  you 
hear  them  ?  " 

"  Why,  White,  they're  coming  this  way  !  " 

"I  know  they  are,"  said  White,  sliding  out  of 
bed  and  drawing  on  his  clothes,  "  and  they're 
coming  fast.  You'd  better  go  away  from  that 
window,  Patty.  My  !  what  a  clatter  !  " 


Jean-ah  Poqueiin.  ng 

"  Here  they  are,"  said  Mrs.  White,  but  her  hus- 
band was  gone.  Two  or  three  hundred  men  and 
boys  pass  the  place  at  a  rapid  walk  straight  down 
the  broad,  new  street,  toward  the  hated  house  of 
ghosts.  The  din  was  terrific.  She  saw  little  White 
at  the  head  of  the  rabble  brandishing  his  arms  and 
trying  in  vain  to  make  himself  heard  ;  but  they 
only  shook  their  heads,  laughing  and  hooting  the 
louder,  and  so  passed,  bearing  him  on  before 
them. 

Swiftly  they  pass  out  from  among  the  houses, 
away  from  the  dim  oil  lamps  of  the  street,  out  into 
the  broad  starlit  commons,  and  enter  the  willowy 
jungles  of  the  haunted  ground.  Some  hearts  fail 
and  their  owners  lag  behind  and  turn  back,  sud- 
denly remembering  how  near  morning  it  is.  But 
the  most  part  push  on,  tearing  the  air  with  their 
clamor. 

Down  ahead  of  them  in  the  long,  thicket-dark- 
ened way  there  is — singularly  enough — a  faint, 
dancing  light.  It  must  be  very  near  the  old 
house  ;  it  is.  It  has  stopped  now.  It  is  a  lan- 
tern, and  is  under  a  wdl-known  sapling  which  has 
grown  up  on  the  wayside  since  the  canal  was  filled. 
Now  it  swings  mysteriously  to  and  fro.  A  goodly 
number  of  the  more  ghost-fearing  give  up  the 
sport  ;  but  a  full  hundred  move  forward  at  a  run, 
doubling  their  devilish  howling  and  banging. 

Yes ;  it  is  a  lantern,  and  there  are  two  persons 


1 2O  Old  Creole  Days. 

under  the  tree.  The  crowd  draws  near — drops 
into  a  walk  ;  one  of  the  two  is  the  old  African 
mute  ;  he  lifts  the  lantern  up  so  that  it  shines  or. 
the  other  ;  the  crowd  recoils  ;  there  is  a  hush  of 
all  clangor,  and  all  at  once,  with  a  cry  of  mingled 
fright  and  horror  from  every  throat,  the  whole 
throng  rushes  back,  dropping  everything,  sweep- 
ing past  little  White  and  hurrying  on,  never  stop- 
ping until  the  jungle  is  left  behind,  and  then  to 
find  that  not  one  in  ten  has  seen  the  cause  of  the 
stampede,  and  not  one  of  the  tenth  is  certain  what 
it  was. 

There  is  one  huge  fellow  among  them  who  looks 
capable  of  any  villainy.  He  finds  something  to 
mount  on,  and,  in  the  Creole  patois,  calls  a  gen- 
eral halt.  Bienvenu  sinks  down,  and,  vainly  try- 
ing to  recline  gracefully,  resigns  the  leadership. 
The  herd  gather  round  the  speaker  ;  he  assures 
them  that  they  have  been  outraged.  Their  right 
peaceably  to  traverse  the  public  streets  has  been 
trampled  upon.  Shall  such  encroachments  be  en- 
dured ?  It  is  now  daybreak.  Let  them  go  now 
by  the  open  light  of  day  and  force  a  free  passage 
of  the  public  highway  ! 

A  scattering  consent  was  the  response,  and  the 
crowd,  thinned  now  and  drowsy,  straggled  quietly 
down  toward  the  old  house.  Some  drifted  ahead, 
others  sauntered  behind,  but  every  one,  as  he 
again  neared  the  tree,  came  to  a  stand-still.  Little 


Jean-ah  Poquelin.  121 

White  sat  upon  a  bank  of  turf  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  way  looking  very  stern  and  sad.  To  each 
new-comer  he  put  the  same  question  : 

"  Did  you  come  here  to  go  to  old  Poquelin's  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  He's  dead."  And  if  the  shocked  hearer 
started  away  he  would  say  :  "  Don't  go  away." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  go  to  the  funeral  presently." 

If  some  Louisianian,  too  loyal  to  dear  France  or 
Spain  to  understand  English,  looked  bewildered, 
some  one  would  interpret  for  him  ;  and  presently 
they  went.  Little  White  led  the  van,  the  crowd 
trooping  after  him  down  the  middle  of  the  way. 
The  gate,  that  had  never  been  seen  before  un- 
chained, was  open.  Stern  little  White  stopped  a 
short  distance  from  it ;  the  rabble  stopped  behind 
him.  Something  was  moving  out  from  under  the 
veranda.  The  many  whisperers  stretched  upward 
to  see.  The  African  mute  came  very  slowly 
toward  the  gate,  leading  by  a  cord  in  the  nose 
a  small  brown  bull,  which  was  harnessed  to  a 
rude  cart.  On  the  flat  body  of  the  cart,  under  a 
black  cloth,  were  seen  the  outlines  of  a  long 
box. 

"  Hats  off,  gentlemen,"  said  little  White,  as  the 
box  came  in  view,  and  the  crowd  silently  uncov- 
ered. 
."Gentlemen,"  said   little   White,    "here   come 


122  Old  Creole  Days. 

the  last  remains  of  Jean  Marie  Poquelin,  a  bettef 
man,  I'm  afraid,  with  all  his  sins, — yes  a  better — a 
kinder  man  to  his  blood — a  man  of  more  self-for- 
getful goodness — than  all  of  you  put  together  will 
ever  dare  to  be." 

There  was  a  profound  hush  as  the  vehicle 
came  creaking  through  the  gate  ;  but  when  it 
turned  away  from  them  toward  the  forest,  those 
in  front  started  suddenly.  There  was  a  back- 
ward rush,  then  all  stood  still  again  staring  one 
way  ;  for  there,  behind  the  bier,  with  eyes  cast 
down  and  labored  step,  walked  the  living  re- 
mains— all  that  was  left — of  little  Jacques  Poque- 
lin, the  long-hidden  brother — a  leper,  as  white  as 
snow. 

Dumb  with  horror,  the  cringing  crowd  gazed 
upon  the  walking  death.  They  watched,  in  silent 
awe,  the  slow  cortege  creep  down  the  long,  straight 
road  and  lessen  on  the  view,  until  by  and  by  it 
stopped  where  a  wild,  unfrequented  path  branched 
off  into  the  undergrowth  toward  the  rear  of  the 
ancient  city. 

"  They  are  going  to  the  Terre  aux  Ldpreux" 
said  one  in  the  crowd.  The  rest  watched  them  in 
silence. 

The  little  bull  was  set  free  ;  the  mute,  with  the 
strength  of  an  ape,  lifted  the  long  box  to  his 
shoulder.  For  a  moment  more  the  mute  and 
the  leper  stood  in  sight,  while  the  former  ad- 


Jean-ak  Poquelin.  123 

justed  his  heavy  burden  ;  then,  without  one  back- 
ward glance  upon  the  unkind  human  world,  turn- 
ing their  faces  toward  the  ridge  in  the  depths  of 
the  swamp  known  as  the  Leper's  Land,  they 
stepped  into  the  jungle,  disappeared,  and  were 
never  seen  again. 


1 24  Old  Creole  Days. 


MADAME   DELICIEUSE. 

JUST  adjoining  the  old  Cafe  de  Poesie  on  the 
corner,  stood  the  little  one-story,  yellow-washed 
tenement  of  Dr.  Mossy,  with  its  two  glass  doors 
protected  by  batten  shutters,  and  its  low,  weed- 
grown  tile  roof  sloping  out  over  the  sidewalk. 
You  were  very  likely  to  find  the  Doctor  in,  for  he 
was  a  great  student  and  rather  negligent  of  his 
business — as  business.  He  was  a  small,  sedate, 
Creole  gentleman  of  thirty  or  more,  with  a  young- 
old  face  and  manner  that  provoked  instant  admira- 
tion. He  would  receive  you — be  you  who  you 
may — in  a  mild,  candid  manner,  looking  into  yout 
face  with  his  deep  blue  eyes,  and  reassuring  you 
with  a  modest,  amiable  smile,  very  sweet  and  rare 
on  a  man's  mouth. 

To  be  frank,  the  Doctor's  little  establishment 
was  dusty  and  disorderly — very.  It  was  curious 
to  see  the  jars,  and  jars,  and  jars.  In  them  were 
serpents  and  hideous  fishes  and  precious  specimens 
of  many  sorts.  There  were  stuffed  birds  on  broken 
perches ;  and  dried  lizards,  and  eels,  and  little  alii- 


Madame  D'elicieuse.  125 

gators,  and  old  skulls  with  their  crowns  sawed  off, 
and  ten  thousand  odd  scraps  of  writing-paper 
strewn  with  crumbs  of  lonely  lunches,  and  inter- 
spersed with  long-lost  spatulas  and  rust-eaten 
lancets. 

All  New  Orleans,  at  least  all  Creole  New 
Orleans,  knew,  and  yet  did  not  know,  the  dear 
little  Doctor.  So  gentle,  so  kind,  so  skillful,  so 
patient,  so  lenient ;  so  careless  of  the  rich  and  so 
attentive  to  the  poor ;  a  man,  all  in  all,  such  as, 
should  you  once  love  him,  you  would  love  him  for- 
ever. So  very  learned,  too,  but  with  apparently 
no  idea  of  how  to  show  himself  to  his  social  profit, 
— two  features  much  more  smiled  at  than  re- 
spected, not  to  say  admired,  by  a  people  remote 
from  the  seats  of  learning,  and  spending  most  of 
their  esteem  upon  animal  heroisms  and  exterior 
display. 

"  Alas  !  "  said  his  wealthy  acquaintances,  "  what 
a  pity  ;  when  he  might  as  well  be  rich." 

"  Yes,  his  father  has  plenty." 

"  Certainly,  and  gives  it  freely.  But  intends  his 
son  shall  see  none  of  it.'' 

"  His  son?  You  dare  not  so  much  as  mention 
him  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,  how  strange  !  But  they  can  never 
agree — not  even  upon  their  name.  Is  not  that 
droll  ? — a  man  named  General  Villivicencio,  and 
his-  son,  Dr.  Mossy ! " 


126  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing  ;  it  is  only  that  the  Doctor 
drops  the  de  Villivicencio." 

"Drops  the  de  Villivicencio  ?  but  I  think  the 
de  Villivicencio  drops  him,  ho,  ho,  ho, — diable  !  " 

Next  to  the  residence  of  good  Dr.  Mossy  tow 
ered  the  narrow,  red-brick  front  mansion  of  young 
Madame  Delicieuse,  firm  friend  at  once  and  always 
of  those  two  antipodes,  General  Villivicencio  and 
Dr.  Mossy.  Its  dark-covered  carriage-way  was 
ever  rumbling,  and,  with  nightfall,  its  drawing- 
rooms  always  sent  forth  a  luxurious  light  from  the 
lace-curtained  windows  of  the  second-story  bal- 
conies. 

It  was  one  of  the  sights  of  the  rue  Royale  to  see 
by  night  its  tall,  narrow  outline  reaching  high  up 
toward  the  stars,  with  all  its  windows  aglow. 

The  Madame  had  had  some  tastes  of  human  ex- 
perience ;  had  been  betrothed  at  sixteen  (to  a  man 
she  did  not  love,  "  being  at  that  time  a  fool,"  as 
she  said)  ;  one  summer  day  at  noon  had  been  a 
bride,  and  at  sundown — a  widow.  Accidental  dis- 
charge of  the  tipsy  bridegroom's  own  pistol.  Pass 
it  by  !  It  left  but  one  lasting  effect  on  her,  a  spe- 
cial detestation  of  quarrels  and  weapons. 

The  little  maidens  whom  poor  parentage  has 
doomed  to  sit  upon  street  door-sills  and  nurse 
their  infant  brothers  have  a  game  of  "  choosing" 
the  beautiful  ladies  who  sweep  by  along  the  pave- 
ment ;  but  in  rue  Royale  there  was  no  choosing; 


Madame  Delicieuse.  127 

every  little  damsel  must  own  Madame  Delicieuse 
or  nobody,  and  as  that  richly  adorned  and  regal 
favorite  of  old  General  Villivicencio  came  along 
they  would  lift  their  big,  bold  eyes  away  up  to  her 
face  and  pour  forth  their  admiration  in  a  universal 
— "  Ah-h-h-h!" 

But,  mark  you,  she  was  good  Madame  Deli- 
cieuse as  well  as  fair  Madame  Delicieuse :  her 
principles,  however,  not  constructed  in  the  austere 
Anglo-Saxon  style,  exactly  (what  need,  with  the 
lattice  of  the  Confessional  not  a  stone's  throw 
off?).  Her  kind  offices  and  beneficent  schemes 
were  almost  as  famous  as  General  Villivicencio's 
splendid  alms  ;  if  she  could  at  times  do  what  the 
infantile  Washington  said  he  could  not,  why,  no 
doubt  she  and  her  friends  generally  looked  upon  it 
as  a  mere  question  of  enterprise. 

She  had  charms,  too,  of  intellect — albeit  not  such 
a  sinner  against  time  and  place  as  to  be  an  "  edu- 
cated woman  " — charms  that  even  in  a  plainer  per- 
son, would  have  brought  down  the  half  of  New 
Orleans  upon  one  knee,  with  both  hands  on  the 
left  side.  She  had  the  whole  city  at  her  feet,  and, 
with  the  fine  tact  which  was  the  perfection  of  her 
character,  kept  it  there  contented.  Madam  was, 
in  short,  one  of  the  kind  that  gracefully  wrest  from 
society  the  prerogative  of  doing  as  they  please,  and 
had  gone  even  to  such  extravagant  lengths  as  driv- 
ing out  in  the  Amc'ricain  faubourg,  learning  the 


128  Old  Creole  Days. 

English  tongue,  talking  national  politics,  and  simi 
lar  freaks  whereby  she  provoked  the  unbounded 
worship  of  her  less  audacious  lady  friends.  In  the 
center  of  the  cluster  of  Creole  beauties  which  every- 
where gathered  about  her,  and,  most  of  all,  in 
those  incomparable  companies  which  assembled  in 
her  own  splendid  drawing-rooms,  she  was  always 
queen  lily.  Her  house,  her  drawing-rooms,  etc.  ; 
for  the  little  brown  aunt  who  lived  with  her  was  a 
mere  piece  of  curious  furniture. 

There  was  this  notable  charm  about  Madame 
Delicieuse,  she  improved  by  comparison.  She 
never  looked  so  grand  as  when,  hanging  on  Gen- 
eral Villiviccncio's  arm  at  some  gorgeous  ball,  these 
two  bore  down  on  you  like  a  royal  barge  lashed  to 
a  ship-of-the-line.  She  never  looked  so  like  her 
sweet  name,  as  when  she  seated  her  prettiest  lady 
adorers  close  around  her,  and  got  them  all  a-laugh- 
ing. 

Of  the  two  balconies  which  overhung  the  ban- 
quette on  the  front  of  the  Delicieuse  house,  one 
was  a  small  affair,  and  the  other  a  deeper  and 
broader  one,  from  which  Madame  and  her  ladies 
were  wont  upon  gala  days  to  wave  handkerchiefs 
and  cast  flowers  to  the  friends  in  the  processions. 
There  they  gathered  one  Eighth  of  January  morn- 
ing to  see  the  military  display.  It  was  a  bright 
blue  day,  and  the  group  that  quite  filled  the  bal- 
cony had  laid  wrappings  aside,  as  all  flower-buds 


Madame  Delicieuse,  129 

are  apt  to  do  on  such  Creole  January  days,  and 
shone  resplendent  in  spring  attire. 

The  sight-seers  passing  below  looked  up  by  hun- 
dreds and  smiled  at  the  ladies'  eager  twitter,  as,  flirt- 
ing in  humming-bird  fashion  from  one  subject  to  an- 
other, they  laughed  away  the  half  hours  waiting  for 
the  pageant.  By  and  by  they  fell  a-listening,  for 
Madame  Delicieuse  had  begun  a  narrative  concern- 
ing Dr.  Mossy.  She  sat  somewhat  above  her  lis- 
teners, her  elbow  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  and  her 
plump  white  hand  waving  now  and  then  in  grace- 
ful gesture,  they  silently  attending  with  eyes  full 
of  laughter  and  lips  starting  apart. 

"  Vous  savez,"  she  said  (they  conversed  in  French 
of  course),  "  you  know  it  is  now  long  that  Dr. 
Mossy  and  his  father  have  been  in  disaccord.  In- 
deed, when  have  they  not  differed  ?  For,  when 
Mossy  was  but  a  little  boy,  his  father  thought  it 
hard  that  he  was  not  a  rowdy.  He  switched  him 
once  because  he  would  not  play  with  his  toy  gun 
and  drum.  He  was  not  so  high  when  his  father 
wished  to  send  him  to  Paris  to  enter  the  French 
army  ;  but  he  would  not  go.  We  used  to  play 
often  together  on  the  banquette — for  I  am  not  so 
very  many  years  younger  than  he,  no  indeed — 
and,  if  I  wanted  some  fun,  I  had  only  to  pull  his 
hair  and  run  into  the  house  ;  he  would  cry,  and 
monsieur  papa  would  come  out  with  his  hand 
spread  open  and " 


130  Old  Creole  Days. 

Madame  gave  her  hand  a  malicious  little  sweep, 
and  joined  heartily  in  the  laugh  which  followed. 

"  That  was  when  they  lived  over  the  way.  But 
wait  !  you  shall  see ;  I  have  something.  This 
evening  the  General " 

The  houses  of  rue  Roy  ale  gave  a  start  and  rat- 
tled their  windows.  In  the  long,  irregular  line  of 
balconies  the  beauty  of  the  city  rose  up.  Then 
the  houses  jumped  again  and  the  windows  rattled  ; 
Madame  steps  inside  the  window  and  gives  a  mes- 
sage which  the  housemaid  smiles  at  in  receiving. 
As  she  turns  the  houses  shake  again,  and  now 
again  ;  and  now  there  comes  a  distant  strain  of 
trumpets,  and  by  and  by  the  drums  and  bayonets 
and  clattering  hoofs,  and  plumes  and  dancing  ban- 
ners ;  far  down  the  long  street  stretch  out  the  shin- 
ing ranks  of  gallant  men,  and  the  fluttering,  over- 
leaning  swarms  of  ladies  shower  down  their  sweet 
favors  and  wave  their  countless  welcomes. 

In  the  front,  towering  above  his  captains,  rides 
General  Villivicencio,  veteran  of  1814-15,  and, 
with  the  gracious  pomp  of  the  old  time  gentleman, 
lifts  his  cocked  hat,  and  bows,  and  bows. 

Madame  Delicieuse's  balcony  was  a  perfect  maze 
of  waving  kerchiefs.  The  General  looked  up  for 
the  woman  of  all  women  ;  she  was  not  there.  But 
he  remembered  the  other  balcony,  the  smaller  one, 
and  cast  his  glance  onward  to  it.  There  he  saw 
Madame  and  one  other  person  only.  A  srnalj 


Madame  Delicieuse.  131 

blue-eyed,  broad-browed,  scholarly-looking  man 
whom  the  arch  lady  had .  lured  from  his  pen  by 
means  of  a  mock  professional  summons,  and  who 
now  stood  beside  her,  a  smile  of  pleasure  playing 
on  his  lips  and  about  his  eyes. 

"  Vite  !  "  said  Madame,  as  the  father's  eyes  met 
the  son's.  Dr.  Mossy  lifted  his  arm  and  cast  a 
bouquet  of  roses.  A  girl  in  the  crowd  bounded 
forward,  caught  it  in  the  air,  and,  blushing,  handed 
it  to  the  plumed  giant.  He  bowed  low,  first  to  the 
girl,  then  to  the  balcony  above  ;  and  then,  with  a 
responsive  smile,  tossed  ap  two  splendid  kisses, 
one  to  Madame,  and  one,  it  seemed — 

"  For  what  was  that  cheer?  " 

"  Why,  did  you  not  see  ?  General  Villivicencio 
cast  a  kiss  to  his  son." 

The  staff  of  General  Villivicencio  were  a  faithful 
few  who  had  not  bowed  the  knee  to  any  abomina- 
tion of  the  Americains,  nor  sworn  deceitfully  to  any 
species  of  compromise  ;  their  beloved  city  was  pres- 
ently to  pass  into  the  throes  of  an  election,  and 
this  band,  heroically  unconscious  of  their  feebleness, 
putting  their  trust  in  "  reactions  "  and  like  delu- 
sions, resolved  to  make  one  more  stand  for  the  tradi- 
tions of  their  fathers.  It  was  concerning  this  that 
Madame  Delicieuse  was  incidentally  about  to  speak 
when  interrupted  by  the  boom  of  cannon  ;  they 
had  promised  to  meet  at  her  house  that  evening. 


132  Old  Creole  Days. 

They  met.  With  very  little  discussion  or  delay 
(for  their  minds  were  made  up  beforehand),  it  was 
decided  to  announce  in  the  French-English  news- 
paper that,  at  a  meeting  of  leading  citizens,  it  had 
been  thought  consonant  with  the  public  interest  to 
place  before  the  people  the  name  of  General  Her- 
cule  Mossy  de  Villivicencio.  No  explanation  was 
considered  necessary.  All  had  been  done  in  strict 
accordance  with  time-honored  customs,  and  if  any 
one  did  not  know  it  it  was  his  own  fault.  No 
eulogium  was  to  follow,  no  editorial  indorsement. 
The  two  announcements  were  destined  to  stand 
next  morning,  one  on  the  English  side  and  one  on 
the  French,  in  severe  simplicity,  to  be  greeted  with 
profound  gratification  by  a  few  old  gentlemen  in 
blue  cottonade,  and  by  roars  of  laughter  from  a 
rampant  majority. 

As  the  junto  were  departing,  sparkling  Madame 
Delicieuse  detained  the  General  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs  that  descended  into  the  tiled  carriage-way, 
to  wish  she  was  a  man,  that  she  might  vote  for 
him. 

"  But,  General,"  she  said,  "  had  I  not  a  beauti- 
ful bouquet  of  ladies  on  my  balcony  this  morn- 
ing ?  " 

The  General  replied,  with  majestic  gallantry, 
that  "  it  was  as  magnificent  as  could  be  expected 
with  the  central  rose  wanting."  And  so  Madame 
was  disappointed,  for  she  was  tryi.ng  to  force  the 


Madame  D'elicieuse.  133 

General  to  mention  his  son.  "  I  will  bear  this  no 
longer  ;  he  shall  not  rest,"  she  had  said  to  her  little 
aunt,  "  until  he  has  either  kissed  his  son  or  quar- 
reled with  him."  To  which  the  aunt  had  answered 
that,  "  coute  que  coute,  she  need  not  cry  about 
it ;  "  nor  did  she.  Though  the  General's  compli- 
ment had  foiled  her  thrust,  she  answered  gayly  to 
the  effect  that  enough  was  enough  ;  "  but,  ah  ! 
General,"  dropping  her  voice  to  an  undertone,  "  if 
you  had  heard  what  some  of  those  rosebuds  said 
of  you  !  " 

The  old  General  pricked  up  like  a  country  beau. 
Madame  laughed  to  herself,  "  Monsieur  Peacock, 
I  have  thee  ;  "  but  aloud  she  said  gravely  : 

"  Come  into  the  drawing  room,  if  you  please, 
and  seat  yourself.  You  must  be  greatly  fatigued." 

The  friends  who  waited  below  overheard  the  in- 
vitation. 

"  Au  revoir,  General,"  said  they. 

"  Au  revoir,  Messieurs,"  he  answered,  and  fol- 
lowed the  lady. 

"  General,"  said  she,  as  if  her  heart  were  over- 
flowing, "  you  have  been  spoken  against.  Please 
sit  down." 

"  Is  that  true,  Madame  ?  " 

"  Yes,  General." 

She  sank  into  a  luxurious  chair. 

"  A  lady  said  to-day—  but  you  will  be  angry  with 
me,  General." 


134  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  With  you,  Madame  ?     That  is  not  possible." 

"I  do  not  love  to  make  revelations,  General; 
but  when  a  noble  friend  is  evil  spoken  of" — she 
leaned  her  brow  upon  her  thumb  and  forefinger, 
and  looked  pensively  at  her  slipper's  toe  peeping 
out  at  the  edge  of  her  skirt  on  the  rich  carpet — 
"  one's  heart  gets  very  big. 

"  Madame,  you  are  an  angel !  But  what  said 
she,  Madame  ?  " 

"Well,  General,  I  have  to  tell  you  the  whole 
truth,  if  you  will  not  be  angry.  We  were  all 
speaking  at  once  of  handsome  men.  She  said  to 
me  :  '  Well,  Madame  Delicieuse,  you  may  say 
what  you  will  of  General  Villivicencio,  and  I  sup- 
pose it  is  true  ;  but  everybody  knows  ' — pardon 
me,  General,  but  just  so  she  said — '  all  the  world 
knows  he  treats  his  son  very  badly." 

"  It  is  not  true,"  said  the  General. 

"If  I  wasn't  angry  !"  said  Madame,  making  a 
pretty  fist.  '  How  can  that  be  ?  '  I  said.  '  Well,' 
she  said,  '  mamma  says  he  has  been  angry  with  his 
son  for  fifteen  years.'  '  But  what  did  his  son  do  ?  ' 
I  said.  '  Nothing,'  said  she.  '  Ma  foi,'  I  said, 
'  me,  I  too  would  be  angry  if  my  son  had  done 
nothing  for  fifteen  years' — ho,  ho,  ho  !  " 

The  old  General  cleared  his  throat,  and  smiled 
as  by  compulsion. 

"  You  know,  General,"  said  Madame,  looking 
distressed,  "it  was  nothing  to  joke  about,  but  I 


Madame  Delicieuse.  135 

had  to  say  so,  because  I  did  not  know  what  your 
son  had  done,  nor  did  I  wish  to  hear  anything 
against  one  who  has  the  honor  to  call  you  his 
father." 

She  paused  a  moment  to  let  the  flattery  take 
effect,  and  then  proceeded  : 

"  But  then  another  lady  said  to  me  ;  she  said, 
'  For  shame,  Clarisse,  to  laugh  at  good  Dr.  Mossy  ; 
nobody — neither  General  Villivicencio,  neither  any 
other,  has  a  right  to  be  angry  against  that  noble, 
gentle,  kind,  brave '  " 

"  Brave  !  "  said  the  General,  with  a  touch  of  irony. 

"  So  she  said,"  answered  Madame  Delicieuse, 
"  and  I  asked  her,  '  how  brave  ?  '  '  Brave  ?  "  she 
said,  '  why,  braver  than  any  soldier,  in  tending  the 
small-pox,  the  cholera,  the  fevers,  and  all  those 
horrible  things.  Me,  I  saw  his  father  once  run 
from  a  snake  ;  I  think  he  wouldn't  fight  the  small- 
pox— my  faith  ! '  she  said,  '  they  say  that  Dr. 
Mossy  does  all  that  and  never  wears  a  scapula ! — 
and  does  it  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  times  in 
a  thousand  for  nothing !  Is  that  brave,  Madame 
Delicieuse,  or  is  it  not  ?  ' — And,  General, — what 
could  I  say  ?  " 

Madame  dropped  her  palms  on  either  side  of  her 
spreading  robes  and  waited  pleadingly  for  an 
answer.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  drumming 
of  the  General's  fingers  on  his  sword-hilt.  Madame 
res.umed : 


136  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  I  said,  '  I  do  not  deny  that  Mossy  is  a  noble 
gentleman  ;  '-  -I  had  to  say  that,  had  I  not,  Gen- 
eral ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Madame,"  said  the  General,  "  my 
son  is  a  gentleman,  yes." 

"  '  But,'  I  said,  '  he  should  not  make  Monsieur, 
his  father,  angry.'  " 

"  True,"  said  the  General,  eagerly. 

"But  that  lady  said:  'Monsieur,  his  father, 
makes  himself  angry,'  she  said.  '  Do  you  know, 
Madame,  why  his  father  is  angry  so  long  ?  '  An- 
other lady  says,  '  I  know  ! '  '  For  what  ?  '  said  I. 
'  Because  he  refused  to  become  a  soldier  ;  mamma 
told  me  that.'  '  It  cannot  be  !'  I  said." 

The  General  flushed.  Madame  saw  it,  but  re- 
lentlessly continued  : 

"  '  Mais  oui,'  said^that  lady.  '  What !  '  I  said, 
'  think  you  General  Villivicencio  will  not  rather 
be  the  very -man  most  certain  to  respect  a  son 
who  has  the  courage  to  be  his  own  master  ? 
Oh,  what  does  he  want  with  a  poor  fool  of  a 
son  who  will  do  only  as  he  says  ?  You  think  he 
will  love  him  less  for  healing  instead  of  killing? 
Mesdemoiselles,  you  do  not  know  that  noble 
soldier  !  '  " 

The  noble  soldier  glowed  and  bowed  his  ac- 
knowledgments in  a  dubious,  half  remonstrative 
way,  as  if  Madame  might  be  producing  material 
for  her  next  confession,  as,  indeed,  she  diligently 


Madame  Delicieuse.  137 

was  doing  ;  but  she  went  straight  on  once  more, 
as  a  surgeon  would. 

"  But  that  other  lady  said  :  '  No,  Madame,  no, 
ladies  ;  but  I  am  going  to  tell  you  why  Monsieur, 
the  General,  is  angry  with  his  son.'  'Very  well, 
why?' — 'Why?  It  is  just  —  because  —  he  is  —  a 
little  man  ! 

General  Villivicencio  stood  straight  up. 

"  Ah  !  mon  ami,"  cried  the  lady,  rising  excitedly, 
"  I  have  wounded  you  and  made  you  angry,  with 
my  silly  revelations.  Pardon  me,  my  friend. 
Those  were  foolish  girls,  and,  any  how,  they 
admired  you.  They  said  you  looked  glorious — • 
grand — at  the  head  of  the  procession." 

Now,  all  at  once,  the  General  felt  the  tremendous 
fatigues  of  the  day ;  there  was  a  wild,  swimming, 
whirling  sensation  in  his  head^  that  forced  him  to 
let  his  eyelids  sink  down  ;  yet^just  there,  in  the 
midst  of  his  painful  bewilderment,  he  realized  with 
ecstatic  complacency  that  the  most  martial-looking 
man  in  Louisiana  was  standing  in  his  spurs  with 
the  hand  of  Louisiana's  queenliest  woman  laid  ten- 
derly on  his  arm. 

"  I  am  a  wretched  tattler  !  "  said  she. 

"  Ah  !  no,  Madame,  you  are  my  dearest  friend, 
yes." 

"Well,  any  how,  I  called  them'  fools.  'Ah! 
innocent  creatures,'  I  said,  '  think  you  a  man  of 
his  sense  and  goodness,  giving  his  thousands  to  the 


138  Old  Creole  Days. 

sick  and  afflicted,  will  cease  to  love  his  only  son 
because  he  is  not  big  like  a  horse  or  quarrelsome 
like  a  dog  ?  No,  ladies,  there  is  a  great  reason 
which  none  of  you  know.'  '  Well,  well,'  they 
cried,  '  tell  it;  he  has  need  of  a  very  good  reason  ; 
tell  it  now.'  '  My  ladies,'  I  said,  '  I  must  not' — 
for,  General,  for  all  the  world  I  knew  not  a  reason 
why  you  should  be  angry  against  your  son  ;  you 
know,  General,  you  have  never  told  me." 

The  beauty  again  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and 
gazed,  with  round-eyed  simplicity,  into  his  somber 
countenance.  For  an  instant  her  witchery  had 
almost  conquered. 

"Nay,  Madame,  some  day  I  shall  tell  you;  I 
have  more  than  one  burden  here.  But  let  me  ask 
you  to  be  seated,  for  I  have  a  question,  also,  for 
you,  which  I  have  longed  to  ask.  It  lies  heavily 
upon  my  heart ;  I  must  ask  it  now.  A  matter  of 
so  great  importance " 

Madame's  little  brown  aunt  gave  a  faint  cough 
from  a  dim  corner  of  the  room. 

"  Tis  a  beautiful  night,"  she  remarked,  and 
stepped  out  on  the  balcony. 

Then  the  General  asked  his  question.  It  was 
a  very  long  question,  or,  may  be,  repeated  twice 
or  thrice  ;  for  it  was  fully  ten  minutes  before  he 
moved  out  of  the  room,  saying  good-evening. 

Ah !  old  General  Villivicencio.  The  most 
martial-looking  man  in  Louisiana !  But  what 


Madame  Delicieuse.  139 

would  the  people,  the  people  who  cheered  in  the 
morning,  have  said,  to  see  the  fair  Queen  Delicieuse 
at  the  top  of  the  stair,  sweetly  bowing  you  down 
into  the  starlight, — humbled,  crest-fallen,  rejected  I 

The  campaign  opened.  The  Villivicencio  ticket 
was  read  in  French  and  English  with  the  very  dif- 
ferent sentiments  already  noted.  In  the  Exchange, 
about  the  courts,  among  the  "banks,"  there  was 
lively  talking  concerning  its  intrinsic  excellence 
and  extrinsic  chances.  The  young  gentlemen  who 
stood  about  the  doors  of  the  so-called  "  coffee- 
houses "  talked  with  a  frantic  energy  alarming  to 
any  stranger,  and  just  when  you  would  have  ex- 
pected to  see  them  jump  and  bite  large  mouthfuls 
out  of  each  other's  face,  they  would  turn  and  enter 
the  door,  talking  on  in  the  same  furious  manner, 
and,  walking  up  to  the  bar,  click  their  glasses  to 
the  success  of  the  Villivicencio  ticket.  Sundry 
swarthy  and  wrinkled  remnants  of  an  earlier  gen- 
eration were  still  more  enthusiastic.  There  was  to 
be  a  happy  renaissance  ;  a  purging  out  of  Yankee 
ideas  ;  a  blessed  home-coming  of  those  good  old 
Bourbon  morals  and  manners  which  Yankee  notions 
had  expatriated.  In  the  cheerfulness  of  their  an- 
ticipations they  even  went  the  length  of  throwing 
their  feet  high  in  air,  thus  indicating  how  the 
Villivicencio  ticket  was  going  to  give  "  doze  Am£ri- 
cains  "  the  kick  under  the  nose. 


140  Old  Creole  Days. 

In  the  three  or  four  weeks  which  followed,  the 
General  gathered  a  surfeit  of  adulation,  notwith- 
standing which  he  was  constantly  and  with  pain 
imagining  a  confused  chatter  of  ladies,  and  when 
he  shut  his  eyes  with  annoyance,  there  was  Madame 
Delicieuse  standing,  and  saying,  "  I  knew  not  a 
reason  why  you  should  be  angry  against  your  son," 
gazing  in  his  face  with  hardened  simplicity,  and 
then — that  last  scene  on  the  stairs  wherein  he 
seemed  still  to  be  descending,  down,  down. 

Madame  herself  was  keeping  good  her  resolu- 
tion. 

"  Now  or  never,"  she  said,  "  a  reconciliation  or 
a  quarrel." 

When  the  General,  to  keep  up  appearances, 
called  again,  she  so  moved  him  with  an  account 
of  certain  kindly  speeches  of  her  own  invention, 
which  she  imputed  to  Dr.  Mossy,  that  he  promised 
to  call  and  see  his  son  ;  "  perhaps ; "  "  pretty 
soon;"  "probably." 

Dr.  Mossy,  sitting  one  February  morning  among 
his  specimens  and  books  of  reference,  finishing 
a  thrilling  chapter  on  the  cuticle,  too  absorbed  to 
hear  a  door  open,  suddenly  realized  that  something 
was  in  his  light,  and,  looking  up,  beheld  General 
Villivicencio  standing  over  him.  Breathing  a 
pleased  sigh,  he  put  down  his  pen,  and,  rising  on 
tiptoe,  laid  his  hand  upon  his  father's  shoulder,  and 
lifting  his  lips  like  a  little  wife,  kissed  him. 


Madame  D'elicieuse.  141 

"  Be  seated,  papa,"  he  said,  offering  his  own 
chair,  and  perching  on  the  desk. 

The  General  took  it,  and,  clearing  his  throat, 
gazed  around  upon  the  jars  and  jars  with  their  little 
Adams  and  Eves  in  zoological  gardens. 

"  Is  all  going  well,  papa  ?  "  finally  asked  Dr. 
Mossy. 

"Yes." 

Then  there  was  a  long  pause. 

"  'Tis  a  beautiful  day,"  said  the  son. 

"  Very  beautiful,"  rejoined  the  father. 

"  I  thought  there  would  have  been  a  rain,  but  it 
has  cleared  off,"  said  the  son. 

"  Yes,"  responded  the  father,  and  drummed  on 
the  desk. 

"  Does  it  appear  to  be  turning  cool  ?  "  asked  the 
son. 

"  No  ;  it  does  not  appear  to  be  turning  cool  at 
all,"  was  the  answer. 

"  H'm  'm  !  "  said  Dr.  Mossy. 

"  Hem  !  "  said  General  Villivicencio. 

Dr.  Mossy,  not  realizing  his  own  action,  stole  a 
glance  at  his  manuscript. 

"  I  am  interrupting  you,"  said  the  General, 
quickly,  and  rose. 

"  No,  no  !  pardon  me  ;  be  seated  ;  it  gives  me 
great  pleasure  to — I  did  not  know  what  I  was  do- 
ing. It  is  the  work  wijth  which  I  fill  my  leisure 
moments." 


142  Old  Creole  Days. 

So  the  General  settled  down  again,  and  father 
and  son  sat  very  close  to  each  other— in  a  bodil) 
sense ;  spiritually  they  were  many  miles  apart. 
The  General's  finger-ends,  softly  tapping  the  desk, 
had  the  sound  of  far-away  drums. 

"  The  city — it  is  healthy  ?  "  asked  the  General. 

"  Did  you  ask  me  if "  said  the  little  Doctor, 

starting  and  looking  up. 

"  The  city — it  has  not  much  sickness  at  present  ?  " 
repeated  the  father. 

"  No,  yes — not  much,"  said  Mossy,  and,  with 
utter  unconsciousness,  leaned  down  upon  his 
elbow  and  supplied  an  omitted  word  to  the  manu- 
script. 

The  General  was  on  his  feet  as  if  by  the  touch 
of  a  spring 

"  I  must  go  !  " 

"Ah  !  no,  papa,"  said  the  son. 

"  But,  yes,  I  must." 

"  But  wait,  papa,  I  had  just  now  something  to 
speak  of " 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  General,  standing  with  his 
hand  on  the  door,  and  with  rather  a  dark  counte- 
nance. 

Dr.  Mossy  touched  his  fingers  to  his  forehead, 
trying  to  remember. 

"  I  fear  1  have — ah  !  I  rejoice  to  see  your  name 
before  the  public,  dear  papa,  and  at  the  head  of  the 
ticket.' 


Madame  Delicieuse.  143 

The  General's  displeasure  sank  down  like  an 
eagle's  feathers.  He  smiled  thankfully,  and 
bowed. 

"  My  friends  compelled  me,"  he  said. 

"  They,  think  you  will  be  elected  ?  " 

"  They  will  not  doubt  it.  But  what  think  you, 
my  son  ?  " 

Now  the  son  had  a  conviction  which  it  would 
have  been  madness  to  express,  so  he  only  said  : 

"They  could  not  elect  one  more  faithful." 

The  General  bowed  solemnly. 

"  Perhaps  the  people  will  think  so  ;  my  friends 
believe  they  will." 

"  Your  friends  who  have  used  your  name  should 
help  you  as  much  as  they  can,  papa,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor. "  Myself,  I  should  like  to  assist  you,  papa,  if 
I  could." 

"  A-bah ! "  said  the  pleased  father,  incredu- 
lously. 

"  But,  yes,"  said  the  son. 

A  thrill  of  delight  filled  the  General's  frame. 
This  was  like  a  son. 

"  Thank  you,  my  son  !  I  thank  you  much.  Ah, 
Mossy,  my  dear  boy,  you  make  me  happy  !  " 

"  But,"  added  Mossy,  realizing  with  a  tremor 
how  far  he  had  gone,  "  I  see  not  how  it  is  pos- 
sible." 

The  General's  chin  dropped. 

"  Not  being  a  public  man,"  continued  the  Doc- 


144  Old  Creole  Days. 

tor ;  "  unless,  indeed,  my  pen — you  might  enlist 
my  pen." 

He  paused  with  a  smile  of  bashful  inquiry.  The 
General  stood  aghast  for  a  moment,  and  then 
caught  the  idea. 

"  Certainly  !  cer-tain-ly  !  ha,  ha,  ha  !  " — backing 
out  of  the  door — "  certainly  !  Ah  !  Mossy,  you  are 
right,  to  be  sure  ;  to  make  a  complete  world  we 
must  have  swords  and  pens.  Well,  my  son,  '  au 
revoir  ; '  no,  I  cannot  stay — I  will  return.  I  hasten 
to  tell  my  friends  that  the  pen  of  Dr.  Mossy  is  on 
our  side  !  Adieu,  dear  son." 

Standing  outside  on  the  banquette  he  bowed — 
not  to  Dr.  Mossy,  but  to  the  balcony  of  the  big 
red-brick  front — a  most  sunshiny  smile,  and  de- 
parted. 

The  very  next  morning,  as  if  fate  had  ordered  it, 
the  Villivicencio  ticket  was  attacked — ambushed, 
as  it  were,  from  behind  the  Americain  newspaper. 
The  onslaught  was — at  least  General  Villivicencio 
said  it  was — absolutely  ruffianly.  Never  had  all 
the  lofty  courtesies  and  formalities  of  chivalric  con- 
test been  so  completely  ignored.  Poisoned  balls 
— at  least  personal  epithets — were  used.  The  Gen- 
eral himself  was  called  "  antiquated  !  "  The  friends 
who  had  nominated  him,  they  were  positively 
sneered  at ;  dubbed  "  fossils,"  "  old  ladies,"  and 
their  caucus  termed  "  irresponsible  " — thunder  and 
lightning  !  gentlemen  of  honor  to  be  termed  "  not 


Madame  D'elicieuse.  145 

responsible ! "  It  was  asserted  that  the  nomina- 
tion was  made  secretly,  in  a  private  house,  by  two 
or  three  unauthorized  harum-scarums  (that  touched 
the  very  bone)  who  had  with  more  caution  than 
propriety  withheld  their  names.  The  article  was 
headed,  "The  Crayfish-eaters'  Ticket."  It  contin- 
ued farther  to  say  that,  had  not  the  publication  of 
this  ticket  been  regarded  as  a  dull  hoax,  it  would 
not  have  been  suffered  to  pass  for  two  weeks 
unchallenged,  and  that  it  was  now  high  time 
the  universal  wish  should  be  realized  in  its  with- 
drawal. 

Among  the  earliest  readers  of  this  production 
was  the  young  Madame.  She  first  enjoyed  a  quiet 
gleeful  smile  over  it,  and  then  called  : 

"  Ninide,  here,  take  this  down  to  Dr.  Mossy — 
stop."  She  marked  the  communication  heavily 
with  her  gold  pencil.  "  No  answer ;  he  need  not 
return  it." 

About  the  same  hour,  and  in  a  neighboring 
street,  one  of  the  "  not  responsibles  "  knocked  on 
the  Villivicencio  castle  gate.  The  General  invited 
him  into  his  bedroom.  With  a  short  and  strictly 
profane  harangue  the  visitor  produced  the  offen- 
sive newspaper,  and  was  about  to  begin  reading, 
when  one  of  those  loud  nasal  blasts,  so  peculiar  to 
the  Gaul,  resounded  at  the  gate,  and  another  "  not 
responsible "  entered,  more  excited,  if  possible, 
than  the  first.  Several  minutes  were  spent  in 


146  Old  Creole  Days. 

\ 

exchanging  fierce  sentiments  and  slapping  the  palm 

of  the  left  hand  rapidly  with  the  back  of  the  right. 
Presently  there  was  a  pause  for  breath. 

"  Alphonse,  proceed  to  read,"  said  the  General, 
sitting  up  in  bed. 

"  De  Crayfish-eaters'  Ticket "- — began  Alphonse  ; 
but  a  third  rapping  at  the  gate  interrupted  him, 
and  a  third  "  irresponsible  "  reinforced  their  num- 
ber, talking  loudly  and  wildly  to  the  waiting-man 
as  he  came  up  the  hall. 

,  Finally,  Alphonse  read  the  article.  Little  by 
little  the  incensed  gentlemen  gave  it  a  hearing, 
now  two  words  and  now  three,  interrupting  it  to 
rip  out  long,  rasping  maledictions,  and  wag  their 
forefingers  at  each  other  as  they  strode  ferociously 
about  the  apartment. 

As  Alphonse  reached  the  close,  and  dashed  the 
paper  to  the  floor,  the  whole  quartette,  in  terrific 
unison,  cried  for  the  blood  of  the  editor. 

But  hereupon  the  General  spoke  with  authority. 

"  No,  Messieurs,"  he  said,  buttoning  his  dressing- 
gown,  savagely,  "  you  shall  not  fight  him.  I  forbid 
it — you  shall  not !  " 

"  But,"  cried  the  three  at  once,  "  one  of  us  must 
fight,  and  you — you  cannot ;  if  you  fight  our  cause 
,s  lost !  The  candidate  must  not  fight." 

"  Hah-h !  Messieurs,"  cried  the  hero,  beating 
his  breast  and  lifting  his  eyes,  "  grace  au  ciel.  I 
have  a  son.  Yes,  my  beloved  friends,  a  son  who 


Madame  Delicieuse.  147 

shall  call  the  villain  out  and  make  him  pay  for  his 
impudence  with  blood,  or  eat  his  words  in  to-mor- 
row morning's  paper.  Heaven  be  thanked  that 
gave  me  a  son  for  this  occasion  !  I  shall  see  him 
at  once — as  soon  as  I  can  dress.". 

"  We  will  go  with  you." 

"  No,  gentlemen,  let  me  see  my  son  alone.  I 
can  meet  you  at  Maspero's  in  two  hours.  Adieu, 
my  dear  friends." 

He  was  resolved. 

"  Au  revoir,"  said  the  dear  friends. 

Shortly  after,  cane  in  hand,  General  Villivicen- 
cio  moved  with  an  ireful  stride  up  the  banquette 
of  rue  Royale.  Just  as  he  passed  the  red-brick 
front  one  of  the  batten  shutters  opened  the  faint- 
est bit,  and  a  certain  pair  of  lovely  eyes  looked 
after  him,  without  any  of  that  round  simplicity 
which  we  have  before  discovered  in  them.  As 
he  half  turned  to  knock  at  his  son's  door  he 
glanced  at  this  very  shutter,  but  it  was  as  tightly 
closed  as  though  the  house  were  an  enchanted 
palace. 

Dr.  Mossy's  door,  on  the  contrary,  swung  ajar 
when  he  knocked,  and  the  General  entered. 

"  Well,  my  son,  have  you  seen  that  newspaper  ? 
No,  I  think  not.  I  see  you  have  not,  since  your 
cheeks  are  not  red  with  shame  and  anger." 

Dr.  Mossy  looked  up  with  astonishment  from  the 
desk  where  he  sat  writing. 


148  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  What  is  that,  papa  ?  " 

"  My  faith  !  Mossy,  is  it  possible  you  have  not 
heard  of  the  attack  upon  me,  which  has  surprised 
and  exasperated  the  city  this  morning  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Dr.  Mossy,  with  still  greater  surprise, 
and  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

His  father  put  on  a  dying  look.  "  My  soul !  " 
At  that  moment  his  glance  fell  upon  the  paper 
which  had  been  sent  in  by  Madame  D^licieuse. 
"  But,  Mossy,  my  son,"  he  screamed,  "  there  it  is  !  " 
striking  it  rapidly  with  one  finger — "  there  !  there  ! 
there  !  read  it !  It  calls  me  '  not  responsible  ! '  '  not 
responsible  '  it  calls  me  !  Read  !  read  !  " 

"  But,  papa,"  said  the  quiet  little  Doctor,  rising, 
and  accepting  the  crumpled  paper  thrust  at  him. 
"  I  have  read  this.  If  this  is  it,  well,  then,  already 
I  am  preparing  to  respond  to  it." 

The  General  seized  him  violently,  and,  spreading 
a  suffocating  kiss  on  his  face,  sealed  it  with  an  affec- 
tionate oath. 

"  Ah,  Mossy,  my  boy,  you  are  glorious  !  You 
had  begun  already  to  write  !  You  are  glorious  ! 
Read  to  me  what  you  have  written,  my  son." 

The  Doctor  took  up  a  bit  of  manuscript,  and  re- 
suming his  chair,  began  : 

"  MESSRS.  EDITORS  :  On  your  journal  of  this  morning  — " 

"  Eh  !  how  !  you  have  not  written  it  in  English, 
is  it,  son  ?  " 


Madame  D'elicieuse.  149 

"  But,  yes,  papa." 

"  Tis  a  vile  tongue,"  said  the  General ;  "  but,  if  it 
is  necessary — proceed." 


"  MESSRS.  EDITORS  :  On  your  journal  of  this  morning  is  pub- 
lished an  editorial  article  upon  the  Villivicencio  ticket,  which  is 
plentiful  and  abundant  with  mistakes.  Who  is  the  author  or  writer 
of  the  above  said  editorial  article  your  correspondent  does  at  present 
ignore,  but  doubts  not  he  is  one  who,  hasty  to  form  an  opinion,  will 
yet,  however,  make  his  assent  to  the  correction  of  some  errors  and 
mistakes  which — " 


"  Bah  !  "  cried  the  General. 

Dr.  Mossy  looked  up,  blushing  crimson. 

"  Bah  !  "  cried  the  General,  still  more  forcibly. 
"  Betise  !  " 

"  How  ?  "  asked  the  gentle  son. 

"  'Tis  all  nonsent  !  "  cried  the  General,  bursting 
into  English.  "  Hall  you  'ave  to  say  is  :  '  'Sieur 
Editeurs  !  I  want  you  s'all  give  de  nem  of  de  in- 
dignan'  scoundrel  who  meek  some  lies  on  you' 
paper  about  mon  pere  et  ses  amis  !  " 

"  Ah-h  !  "  said  Dr.  Mossy,  in  a  tone  of  derision 
and  anger. 

His  father  gazed  at  him  in  mute  astonishment. 
He  stood  beside  his  disorderly  little  desk,  his  small 
form  drawn  up,  a  hand  thrust  into  his  breast,  and 
that  look  of  invincibility  in  his  eyes  such  as  blue 
eyes  sometimes  surprise  us  with. 
-  "  You  want  me  to  fight,"  he  said. 


150  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  My  faith  !  "  gasped  tjie  General,  loosening  in 
all  his  joints.  "  I  believe — -you  may  cut  me  in 
pieces  if  I  do  not  believe  you  were  going  to  reason 
it  out  in  the  newspaper  !  Fight  ?  If  1  want  you 
to  fight  ?  Upon  my  soul,  I  believe  you  do  not 
want  to  fight  !  " 

"  No,"  said  Mossy. 

"  My  God  !  "  whispered  the  General.  His 
heart  seemed  to  break. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  steadily  gazing  Doctor,  his  lips 
trembling  as  he  opened  them.  "  Yes,  your  God. 
I  am  afraid " 

"  Afraid  !  "  gasped  the  General. 

"  Yes,"  rang  out  the  Doctor,  "  afraid  ;  afraid  ! 
God  forbid  that  I  should  not  be  afraid.  But  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  do  not  fear — I  do  not  fear  to  call 
your  affairs  of  honor — murder  !  " 

"  My  son  !  "  cried  the  father. 

"  I  retract,"  cried  the  son  ;  "  consider  it  unsaid. 
I  will  never  reproach  my  father." 

"  It  is  well,"  said  the  father.  "  I  was  wrong. 
It  is  my  quarrel.  I  go  to  settle  it  myself." 

Dr.  Mossy  moved  quickly  between  his  father 
and  the  door.  General  Villivicencio  stood  before 
him  utterly  bowed  down. 

"  What  will  you  ?  "  sadly  demanded  the  old 
man. 

"  Papa,"  said  the  son,  with  much  tenderness, 
"  I  cannot  permit  you.  Fifteen  years  we  were 


Madame  Delicieuse.  151 

strangers,  and  yesterday  were  friends.  You  must 
not  leave  me  so.  I  will  even  settle  this  quarrel 
for  you.  You  must  let  me.  I  am  pledged  to 
your  service." 

The  peace-loving  little  Doctor  did  not  mean  "  to 
settle,"  but  "  to  adjust."  He  felt  in  an  instant 
that  he  was  misunderstood  ;  yet,  as  quiet  people 
are  apt  to  do,  though  not  wishing  to  deceive,  he 
let  the  misinterpretation  stand.  In  his  embarrass- 
ment he  did  not  know  with  absolute  certainty  what 
he  should  do  himself. 

The  father's  face — he  thought  of  but  one  way  to 
settle  a  quarrel — began  instantly  to  brighten.  "  I 
would  myself  do  it,"  he  said,  apologetically,  "  but 
my  friends  forbid  it." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  but  I  will  go 
myself  now,  and  will  not  return  until  all  is  finished. 
Give  me  the  paper." 

"  My  son,  I  do  not  wish  to  compel  you." 

There  was  something  acid  in  the  Doctor's  smile 
as  he  answered  : 

"  No  ;  but  give  me  the  paper,  if  you  please." 

The  General  handed  it. 

"  Papa,"  said  the  son,  "  you  must  wait  here  for 
my  return." 

"  But  I  have  an  appointment  at  Maspero's 
at—" 

"  I  will  call  and  make  excuse  for  you,"  said  the 
son. 


152  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Well,"  consented  the  almost  happy  father, 
"  go,  my  son  ;  I  will  stay.  But  if  some  of  your 
sick  shall  call  ?  " 

"  Sit  quiet,"  said  the  son.  "  They  will  think  no 
one  is  here."  And  the  General  noticed  that  the 
dust  lay  so  thick  on  the  panes  that  a  person  out- 
side would  have  to  put  his  face  close  to  the  glass 
to  see  within. 

In  the  course  of  half  an  hour  the  Doctor  had 
reached  the  newspaper  office,  thrice  addressed 
himself  to  the  wrong  person,  finally  found  the 
courteous  editor,  and  easily  convinced  him  that 
his  father  had  been  imposed  upon  ;  but  when  Dr. 
Mossy  went  farther,  and  asked  which  one  of  the 
talented  editorial  staff  had  written  the  article  : 

"  You  see,  Doctor,"  said  the  editor — "just  step 
into  my  private  office  a  moment." 

They  went  in  together.  The  next  minute  saw 
Dr.  Mossy  departing  hurriedly  from  the  place, 
while  the  editor  complacently  resumed  his  pen,  as- 
sured that  he  would  not  return. 

General  Villivicencio  sat  and  waited  among 
the  serpents  and  innocents.  His  spirits  began  to 
droop  again.  Revolving  Mossy's  words,  he  could 
not  escape  the  fear  that  possibly,  after  all,  his  son 
might  compromise  the  Villivicencio  honor  in  the 
interests  of  peace.  Not  that  he  preferred  to  put 
his  son's  life  in  jeopardy  ;  he  would  not  object 
to  an  adjustment,  provided  the  enemy  should  beg 


Madame  D'elicieuse.  153 

for  it.  But  if  not,  whom  would  his  son  select  to 
perform  those  friendly  offices  indispensable  in 
polite  quarrels  ?  Some  half-priest,  half-woman  ? 
Some  spectacled  book-worm  ?  He  suffered. 

The  monotony  of  his  passive  task  was  relieved 
by  one  or  two  callers  who  had  the  sagacity  (01 
bad  manners)  to  peer  through  the  dirty  glass,  and 
then  open  the  door,  to  whom,  half  rising  from  his 
chair,  he  answered,  with  a  polite  smile,  that  the 
Doctor  was  out,  nor  could  he  say  how  long  he 
might  be  absent.  Still  the  time  dragged  painfully, 
and  he  began  at  length  to  wonder  why  Mossy  did 
not  return. 

There  came  a  rap  at  the  glass  door  different 
from  all  the  raps  that  had  forerun  it— a  fearless, 
but  gentle,  dignified,  graceful  rap  ;  and  the  Gen- 
eral, before  he  looked  round,  felt  in  all  his  veins 
that  it  came  from  the  young  Madame.  Yes,  there 
was  her  glorious  outline  thrown  sidewise  upon  the 
glass.  He  hastened  and  threw  open  the  door, 
bending  low  at  the  same  instant,  and  extending 
his  hand. 

She  extended  hers  also,  but  not  to  take  his. 
With  a  calm  dexterity  that  took  the  General's 
breath,  she  reached  between  him  and  the  door, 
and  closed  it. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  anxiously  asked  the 
General — for  her  face,  in  spite  of  its  smile,  was 
severe. 


154  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  General,"  she  began,  ignoring  his  inquiry — 
and,  with  all  her  Creole  bows,  smiles,  and  insinu- 
ating phrases,  the  severity  of  her  countenance  but 
partially  waned — "  I  came  to  see  my  physician — 
your  son.  Ah  !  General,  when  I  find  you  recon- 
ciled to  your  son,  it  makes  me  think  I  am  in 
heaven.  You  will  let  me  say  so  ?  You  will  not 
be  offended  with  the  old  playmate  of  your  son  ?  " 

She  gave  him  no  time  to  answer. 

"  He  is  out,  I  think,  is  he  not  ?  But  I  am  glad 
of  it.  It  gives  us  occasion  to  rejoice  together  over 
his  many  merits.  For  you  know,  General,  in  all 
the  years  of  your  estrangement,  Mossy  had  no 
friend  like  myself.  I  am  proud  to  tell  you  so  now  ; 
is  it  not  so  ?  " 

The  General  was  so  taken  aback  that,  when  he 
had  thanked  her  in  a  mechanical  way,  he  could  say 
nothing  else.  She  seemed  to  fall  for  a  little  while 
into  a  sad  meditation  that  embarrassed  him  be- 
yond measure.  But  as  he  opened  his  mouth  to 
speak,  she  resumed  : 

"  Nobody  knew  him  so  well  as  I  ;  though  I, 
poor  me,  I  could  not  altogether  understand  him  ; 
for  look  you,  General,  he  was— what  do  you  think  ? 
— a  great  man  /—nothing  less." 

"  How  ?  "  asked  the  General,  not  knowing  what 
else  to  respond. 

"  You  never  dreamed  of  that,  eh  ?  "  continued 
the  lady.  "  But,  of  course  not;  nobody  did  but 


Madame  Delicieuse.  155 

me.  Some  of  those  Americains,  I  suppose,  knew 
it ;  but  who  would  ever  ask  them  ?  Here  in 
Royal-street,  in  New  Orleans,  where  we  people 
know  nothing  and  care  nothing  but  for  meat, 
drink,  and  pleasure,  he  was  only  Dr.  Mossy,  who 
gave  pills.  My  faith  !  General,  no  wonder  you 
were  disappointed  in  your  son,  for  you  thought  the 
same.  Ah  !  yes,  you  did  !  But  why  did  you  not 
ask  me,  his  old  playmate  ?  I  knew  better.  I 
could  have  told  you  how  your  little  son  stood  head 
and  shoulders  above  the  crowd.  I  could  have  told 
you  some  things  too  wonderful  to  believe.  I  could 
have  told  you  that  his  name  was  known  and  hon- 
ored in  the  scientific  schools  of  Paris,  of  London, 
of  Germany  !  Yes  !  I  could  have  shown  you  " — 
she  warmed  as  she  proceeded — "I  could  have 
shown  you  letters  (I  begged  them  of  him),  written 
as  between  brother  and  brother,  from  the  foremost 
men  of  science  and  discovery  !  " 

She  stood  up,  her  eyes  flashing  with  excite- 
ment. 

"  But  why  did  you  never  tell  me  ?  "  cried  the 
General. 

"  He  never  would  allow  me — but  you — why  did 
you  not  ask  me  ?  I  will  tell  you  ;  you  were  too 
proud  to  mention  your  son.  But  he  had  pride  to 
match  yours — ha  ! — achieving  all — everything — 
with  an  assumed  name  !  '  Let  me  tell  your  father,' 
I  implored  him  ;  but — '  let  him  find  me  out,'  he 


156  Old  Creole  Days. 

said,  and  you  never  found  him  out.  Ah  !  there  he 
was  fine.  He  would  not,  he  said,  though  only  for 
your  sake,  re-enter  your  affections  as  anything 
more  or  less  than  just — your  son.  Ha  !  " 

And  so  she  went  on.  Twenty  times  the  old 
General  was  astonished  anew,  twenty  times  was 
angry  or  alarmed  enough  to  cry  out,  but  twenty 
times  she  would  not  be  interrupted.  Once  he  at- 
tempted a  laugh,  but  again  her  hand  commanded 
silence. 

"  Behold,  Monsieur,  all  these  dusty  specimens, 
these  revolting  fragments.  How  have  you  blushed 
to  know  that  our  idle  people  laugh  in  their  sleeves 
at  these  things  !  How  have  you  blushed — and 
you  his  father  !  But  why  did  you  not  ask  me  ? 
I  could  have  told  you  :  '  Sir,  your  son  is  not  an 
apothecary ;  not  one  of  these  ugly  things  but  has 
helped  him  on  in  the  glorious  path  of  discovery  ; 
discovery,  General — your  son — known  in  Europe 
as  a  scientific  discoverer  !  '  Ah-h  !  the  blind  peo- 
ple say,  '  how  is  that,  that  General  Villivicencio 
should  be  dissatisfied  with  his  son  ?  He  is  a  good 
man,  and  a  good  doctor,  only  a  little  careless, 
that's  all.'  But  you  were  more  blind  still,  for  you 
shut  your  eyes  tight  like  this  ;  when,  had  you 
searched  for  his  virtues  as  you  did  for  his  faults, 
you,  too,  might  have  known  before  it  was  too  late 
what  nobility,  what  beauty,  what  strength,  were  in 
the  character  of  your  poor,  poor  son !  " 


Madame  Delicieuse.  157 

"Just  Heaven!  Madame,  you  shall  not  speak 
of  my  son  as  of  one  dead  and  buried  !  But,  if 
you  have  some  bad  news " 

"  Your  son  took  your  quarrel  on  his  hands, 
eh?" 

"  I  believe  so — I  think " 

"  Well  ;  I  saw  him  an  hour  ago  in  search  of  your 
slanderer  !  " 

"  He  must  find  him  !  "  said  the  General,  pluck- 
ing up. 

"But  if  the  search  is  already  over,"  slowly  re- 
sponded Madame. 

The  father  looked  one  instant  in  her  face,  then 
rose  with  an  exclamation  : 

"  Where  is  my  son  ?  What  has  happened  ? 
Do  you  think  I  am  a  child,  to  be  trifled  with — a 
horse  to  be  teased  ?  Tell  me  of  my  son  !  " 

Madame  was  stricken  with  genuine  anguish. 

"  Take  your  chair,"  she  begged  ;  "  wait  ;  listen  ; 
take  your  chair." 

"  Never  !  "  cried  the  General  ;  "  I  am  going  to 
find  my  son — my  God  !  Madame,  you  have  locked 
this  door  !  What  are  you,  that  you  should  treat 
me  so  ?  Give  me,  this  instant " 

"  Oh  !  Monsieur,  I  beseech  you  to  take  your 
chair,  and  I  will  tell  you  all.  You  can  do  nothing 
now.  Listen  !  suppose  you  should  rush  out  and 
find  that  your  son  had  played  the  coward  at  last ! 
Sit  down  and " 


158  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Ah  !  Madame,  this  is  play !  "  cried  the  dis- 
tracted man, 

"  But  no  ;  it  is  not  play.  Sit  down  ;  I  want  to 
ask  you  something." 

He  sank  down  and  she  stood  over  him,  anguish 
and  triumph  strangely  mingled  in  her  beautiful 
face. 

"  General,  tell  me  true  ;  did  you  not  force  this 
quarrel  into  your  son's  hand  ?  I  know  he  would 
not  choose  to  have  it.  Did  you  not  do  it  to  test 
his  courage,  because  all  these  fifteen  years  you 
have  made  yourself  a  fool  with  the  fear  that  he 
became  a  student  only  to  escape  being  a  soldier  ? 
Did  you  not  ?" 

Her  eyes  looked  him  through  and  through. 

"  And  if  I  did  ?  "  demanded  he  with  faint  de- 
fiance. 

"  Yes  !  and  if  he  has  made  dreadful  haste  and 
proved  his  courage  ?  "  asked  she. 

"  Well,  then," — the  General  straightened  up 
triumphantly — "  then  he  is  my  son  !  " 

He  beat  the  desk. 

"  And  heir  to  your  wealth,  for  example  ?  '' 

"  Certainly." 

The  lady  bowed  in  solemn  mockery. 

"  It  will  make  him  a  magnificent  funeral  !  " 

The  father  bounded  up  and  stood  speechless, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot.  Madame  looked 
straight  in  his  eye. 


Madame  Delicieuse.  159 

"  Your  son  has  met  the  writer  of  that  article." 

"  Where  ?  "  the  old  man's  lips  tried  to  ask. 

"Suddenly,  unexpectedly,  in  a  passage-way." 

"  My  God  !  and  the  villain " 

"  Lives  !  "  cried  Madame. 

He  rushed  to  the  door,  forgetting  that  it  was 
locked. 

"  Give  me  that  key  !  "  he  cried,  wrenched 'at  the 
knob,  turned  away  bewildered,  turned  again  to- 
ward it,  and  again  away  ;  and  at  every  step  and 
turn  he  cried,  "  Oh  !  my  son,  my  son  !  I  have 
killed  my  son  !  Oh  !  Mossy,  my  son,  my  little 
boy  !  Oh  !  my  son,  my  son  !  " 

Madame  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed 
aloud.  Then  the  father  hushed  his  cries  and  stood 
for  a  moment  before  her. 

"  Give  me  the  key,  Clarisse,  let  me  go." 

She  rose  and  laid  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 

"  What  is  it,  Clarisse  ?  "  asked  he. 

"Your  son  and  I  were  ten  years  betrothed." 

"  Oh,  my  child  !  " 

"  Because,  being  disinherited,  he  would  not  be 
my  husband." 

"  Alas  !  would  to  God  I  had  known  it  !  Oh  ! 
Mossy,  my  son," 

"  Oh  !  Monsieur,"  cried  the  lady,  clasping  her 
hands,  "  forgive  me — mourn  no  more — your  son  is 
unharmed  !  /  wrote  the  article — I  am  your  re- 
canting slanderer  !  Your  son  is  hunting  for  me 


160  Old  Creole  Days. 

now.  I  told  my  aunt  to  misdirect  him.  I  slipped 
by  him  unseen  in  the  carriage-way." 

The  wild  old  General,  having  already  staggered 
back  and  rushed  forward  again,  would  have  seized 
her  in  his  arms,  had  not  the  little  Doctor  himself 
at  that  instant  violently  rattled  the  door  and  shook 
his  finger  at  them  playfully  as  he  peered  through 
the  glass. 

"  Behold  !  "  said  Madame,  attempting  a  smile  : 
"  open  to  your  son  ;  here  is  the  key." 

She  sank  into  a  chair. 

Father  and  son  leaped  into  each  other's  arms  ; 
then  turned  to  Madame  : 

"Ah  !  thou  lovely  mischief-maker." 

She  had  fainted  away. 

"  Ah  !  well,  keep  out  of  the  way,  if  you  please, 
papa,"  said  Dr.  Mossy,  as  Madame  presently  re- 
opened her  eyes  ;  "  no  wonder  you  fainted  ;  you 
have  finished  some  hard  work — see  ;  here  ;  so  ; 
Clarisse,  dear,  take  this." 

Father  and  son  stood  side  by  side,  tenderly  re- 
garding her  as  she  revived. 

"  Now,  papa,  you  may  kiss  her  ;  she  is  quite 
herself  again,  already." 

"  My  daughter !  "  said  the  stately  General ; 
"this — is  my  son's  ransom;  and,  with  this, — I 
withdraw  the  Villivicencio  ticket." 

"  You  shall  not,"  exclaimed  the  laughing  lady, 
throwi  g  her  arms  about  his  neck. 


Madame  Delicieuse.  161 

"  But,  yes  !  "  he  insisted  ;  "  my  faith  !  you  will 
at  least  allow  me  to  remove  my  dead  from  the 
field." 

"  But,  certainly ;  "  said  the  son  ;  "  see  Clarisse, 
here  is  Madame,  your  aunt,  asking  us  all  into  the 
house.  Let  us  go." 

The  group  passed  out  into  the  rue  Royale,  Doc- 
tor Mossy  shutting  the  door  behind  them.  The 
sky  was  blue,  the  air  was  soft  and  balmy,  and  on 
the  sweet  south  breeze,  to  which  the  old  General 
bared  his  grateful  brow,  floated  a  ravishing  odor 
of— 

"  Ah  !  what  is  it  ?  "  the  veteran  asked  of  the 
younger  pair,  seeing  the  little  aunt  glance  at  them 
with  a  playful  smile. 

Madame  Delicieuse,  for  almost  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  and  Doctor  Mossy  for  the  thousandth — 
blushed. 

It  was  the  odor  of  orange  blossoms. 


1 62  Old  Creole  Days. 


CAF£   DES   EXILES. 

THAT  which  in  1835 — I  think  he  said  thirty-five 
— was  a  reality  in  the  rue  Burgundy — I  think  he 
said  Burgundy — is  now  but  a  reminiscence.  Yet 
so  vividly  was  its  story  told  me,  that  at  this  mo- 
ment the  old  Cafe"  des  Exiles  appears  before  my 
eye,  floating  in  the  clouds  of  reverie,  and  I  doubt 
not  I  see  it  just  as  it  was  in  the  old  times. 

An  antiquated  story-and-a-half  Creole  cottage 
sitting  right  down  on  the  banquette,  as  do  the 
Choctaw  squaws  who  sell  bay  and  sassafras  and 
life-everlasting,  with  a  high,  close  board  fence 
shutting  out  of  view  the  diminutive  garden  on  the 
southern  side.  An  ancient  willow  droops  over  the 
roof  of  round  tiles  and  partly  hides  the  discolored 
stucco,  which  keeps  dropping  off  into  the  garden 
as  though  the  old  caf£  was  stripping  for  the  plunge 
into  oblivion — disrobing  for  its  execution.  I  see, 
well  up  in  the  angle  of  the  broad  side  gable, 
-'shaded  by  its  rude  awning  of  clap-boards,  as  the 
eyes  of  an  old  dame  are  shaded  by  her  wrinkled 
hand,  the  window  of  Pauline.  Oh,  for  the  image 
of  the  maiden,  were  it  but  for  one  moment,  leaning 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  163 

out  of  the  casement  to  hang  her  mocking-bird  and 
looking  down  into  the  garden, — where,  above  the 
barrier  of  old  boards,  I  see  the  top  of  the  fig-tree, 
the  pale  green  clump  of  bananas,  the  tall  palmetto 
with  its  jagged  crown,  Pauline's  Own  two  orange- 
trees  holding  up  their  hands  toward  the  window, 
heavy  with  the  promises  of  autumn  ;  the  broad,: 
crimson  mass  of  the  many-stemmed  oleander,  and 
the  crisp  boughs  of  the  pomegranate  loaded  with 
freckled  apples,  and  with  here  and  there  a  linger-1 
ing  scarlet  blossom  ! 

The  Cafe  des  Exiles,  to  use  a  figure,  flowered,' 
bore  fruit,  and  dropped  it  long  ago — or  rather  Time 
and  Fate — like  some  uncursed  Adam  and  Eve, 
came  side  by  side  and  cut  away  its  clusters,  as  we 
sever  the  golden  burden  of  the  banana  from  its 
stem  ;  then,  like  a  banana  which  has  borne  its 
fruit,  it  was  razed  to  the  ground  and  made  way  for 
a  newer,  brighter  growth.  I  believe  it  would  set 
every  tooth  on  edge  should  I  go  by  there  now — 
now  that  I  have  heard  the  story,  and  see  the  old 
site  covered  by  the  "  Shoo-fly  Coffee-house." 
Pleasanter  far  to  close  my  eyes  and  call  to  view 
the  unpretentious  portals  of  the  old  cafe,  with  her 
children — for  such  those  exiles  seem  to  me — drag- 
ging their  rocking-chairs  out,  and  sitting  in  their 
wonted  group  under  the  long,  outreaching  eaves 
which  shaded  the  banquette  of  the  rue  Burgundy. 

Jt  was  in    1835   that  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  was,  as 


'164  Old  Creole  Days, 

one  might  say,  in  full  blossom.  Old  M.  D'Heme- 
court,  father  of  Pauline  and  host  of  the  cafe,  him- 
,self  a  refugee  from  San  Domingo,  was  the  cause — 
at  least  the  human  cause — of  its  opening.  As  its 
white-curtained,  glazed  doors  expanded,  emitting 
a  little  puff  of  his  own  cigarette  smoke,  it  was  like 
the  bursting  of  catalpa  blossoms,  and  the  exiles 
came  like  bees,  pushing  into  the  tiny  room  to  sip 
its  rich  variety  of  tropical  syrups,  its  lemonades, 
its  orangeades,  its  orgeats,  its  barley-waters,  and 
its  outlandish  wines,  while  they  talked  of  dear 
home — that  is  to  say,  of  Barbadoes,  of  Martinique, 
of  San  Domingo,  and  of  Cuba. 

There  were  Pedro  and  Benigno,  and  Fernandez 
and  Francisco,  and  Benito.  Benito  was  a  tall, 
swarthy  man,  with  immense  gray  moustachios, 
and  hair  as;  harsh  as  tropical  grass  and  gray  as 
ashes.  When  he  could  spare  his  cigarette  from 
his  lips,  he  would  tell  you  in  a  cavernous  voice, 
and  with  a  wrinkled  smile,  that  he  was  "  a-t- 
thorty-seveng." 

There  was  Martinez  of  San  Domingo,  yellow  as 
a  canary,  always  sitting  with  one  leg  curled  under 
him,  and  holding  the  back  of  his  head  in  his 
knitted  fingers  against  the  back  of  his  rocking- 
chair.  Father,  mother,  brother,  sisters,  all,  had 
been  massacred  in  the  struggle  of  '21  and  '22  ;  he 
alone  was  left  to  tell  the  tale,  and  told  it  often, 
with  that  strange,  infantile  insensibility  to  the  so- 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  105 

lemnity  of  his  bereavement  so  peculiar  to  Latin 
people. 

But,  besides  these,  and  many  who  need  no  men- 
tion, there  were  two  in  particular,  around  whom 
all  the  story  of  the  Cafe  des  Exiles,  of  old  M. 
D'Hemecourt  and  of  Pauline,  turns  as  on  a  double 
center.  First,  Manuel  Mazaro,  whose  small,  rest- 
less eyes  were  as  black  and  bright  as  those  of  a 
mouse,  whose  light  talk  became  his  dark  girlish  face, 
'and  whose  redundant  locks  curled  so  prettily  and  so 
wonderfully  black  under  the  fine  white  brim  of  his 
jaunty  Panama.  He  had  the  hands  of  a  woman, 
save  that  the  nails  were  stained  with  the  smoke  of 
cigarettes.  He  could  play  the  guitar  delightfully, 
and  wore  his  knife  down  behind  his  coat  collar. 

The  second  was  "  Major  "  Galahad  Shaughnessy. 
I  imagine  I  can  see  him,  in  his  white  duck,  brass- 
buttoned  roundabout,  with  his  saberless  belt  peep- 
ing out  beneath,  all  his  boyishness  in  his  sea-blue 
eyes,  leaning  lightly  against  the  door-post  of  the 
Cafe  des  Exiles  as  a  child  leans  against  his  mother, 
running  his  fingers  over  a  basketful  of  fragrant 
limes,  and  watching  his  chance  to  strike  some  sol- 
emn Creole  under  the  fifth  rib  with  a  good  old 
Irish  joke. 

Old  D'Hemecourt  drew  him  close  to  his  bosom. 
The  Spanish  Creoles  were,  as  the  old  man  termed 
it,  both  cold  and  hot,  but  never  warm.  Major 
Shaughnessy  was  warm,  and  it  was  no  uncommon 


1 66  Old  Creole  Days. 

thing  to  find  those  two  apart  from  the  others,  talk- 
ing in  an  undertone,  and  playing  at  confidantes  like 
two  school-girls.  The  kind  old  man  was  at  this 
time  drifting  close  up  to  his  sixtieth  year.  There 
was  much  he  could  tell  of  San  Domingo,  whither 
he  had  been  carried  from  Martinique  in  his  child- 
hood, whence  he  had  become  a  refugee  to  Cuba, 
and  thence  to  New  Orleans  in  the  flight  of  1809. 

It  fell  one  day  to  Manuel  Mazaro's  lot  to  dis- 
cover, by  sauntering  within  earshot,  that  to  Gala- 
had Shaughnessy  only,  of  all  the  children  of  the 
Cafe  des  Exiles,  the  good  host  spoke  long  and 
confidentially  concerning  his  daughter.  The 
words,  half  heard  and  magnified  like  objects  seen 
in  a  fog,  meaning  Manuel  Mazaro  knew  not  what, 
but  made  portentous  by  his  suspicious  nature, 
were  but  the  old  man's  recital  of  the  grinding  he 
had  got  between  the  millstones  of  his  poverty  and 
his  pride,  in  trying  so  long  to  sustain,  for  little 
Pauline's  sake,  that  attitude  before  society  which 
earns  respect  from  a  surface-viewing  world.  It 
was  while  he  was  telling  this  that  Manuel  Mazaro 
drew  near ;  the  old  man  paused  in  an  embarrassed 
way  ;  the  Major,  sitting  sidewise  in  his  chair,  lifted 
his  cheek  from  its  resting-place  on  his  elbow ;  and 
Mazaro,  after  standing  an  awkward  moment,  turned 
away  with  such  an  inward  feeling  as  one  may  guess 
would  arise  in  a  heart  full  of  Cuban  blood,  not  un- 
mixed with  Indian. 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  167 

As  he  moved  off,  M.  D'Hemecourt  resumed : 
that  in  a  last  extremity  he  had  opened,  partly  from 
dire  want,  partly  for  very  love  to  homeless  souls, 
the  Cafe  des  Exiles.  He  had  hoped  that,  as  strong 
drink  and  high  words  were  to  be  alike  unknown  to 
it,  it  might  not  prejudice  sensible  people  ;  but  it 
had.  He  had  no  doubt  they  said  among  them- 
selves, "  She  is  an  excellent  and  beautiful  girl  and 
deserving  all  respect ;  "  and  respect  they  accorded, 
but  their  respects  they  never  came  to  pay. 

"  A  cafe  is  a  cafe,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "  It 
is  nod  possib'  to  ezcape  him,  aldough  de  Cafe  des 
Exiles  is  differen'  from  de  rez." 

"  It's  different  from  the  Cafe  des  Refugi£s,"  sug- 
gested the  Irishman. 

"  Differen'  as  possib',''  replied  M.  D'Hemecourt. 
He  looked  about  upon  the  walls.  The  shelves  were 
luscious  with  ranks  of  cooling  syrups  which  he 
alone  knew  how  to  make.  The  expression  of  his 
face  changed  from  sadness  to  a  gentle  pride,  which 
spoke  without  words,  saying — and  let  our  story 
pause  a  moment  to  hear  it  say  : 

"  If  any  poor  exile,  from  any  island  where 
guavas  or  mangoes  or  plantains  grow,  wants  a 
draught  which  will  make  him  see  his  home  among 
the  cocoa-palms,  behold  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  ready 
to  take  the  poor  child  up  and  give  him  the  breast ! 
And  if  gold  or  silver  he  has  them  not,  why  Heaven 
and  Santa  Maria,  and  Saint  Christopher  bless  him  !. 


1 68  Old  Creole  Days. 

It  makes  no  difference.  Here  is  a  rocking-chair 
here  a  cigarette,  and  here  a  light  from  the  host's 
own  tinder.  He  will  pay  when  he  can." 

As  this  easily  pardoned  pride  said,  so  it  often 
occurred  ;  and  if  the  newly  come  exile  said  his 
father  was  a  Spaniard — "  Come  !  "  old  M.  D'Heme- 
court  would  cry ;  "  another  glass  ;  it  is  an  innocent 
drink  ;  my  mother  was  a  Castilian."  But,  if  the 
exile  said  his  mother  was  a  Frenchwoman,  the 
glasses  would  be  forthcoming  all  the  same,  for 
"  My  father,"  the  old  man  would  say,  "was  a 
Frenchman  of  Martinique,  with  blood  as  pure  as 
that  wine  and  a  heart  as  sweet  as  this  honey ; 
come,  a  glass  of  orgeat ;  "  and  he  would  bring  it 
himself  in  a  quart  tumbler. 

Now,  there  are  jealousies  and  jealousies.  There 
are  people  who  rise  up  quickly  and  kill,  and  there 
are  others  who  turn  their  hot  thoughts  over  silently 
in  their  minds  as  a  brooding  bird  turns  her  eggs  in 
the  nest.  Thus  did  Manuel  Mazaro,  and  took  it 
ill  that  Galahad  should  see  a  vision  in  the  temple 
while  he  and  all  the  brethren  tarried  without. 
Pauline  had  been  to  the  Cafe  des  Exile's  in  some 
degree  what  the  image  of  the  Virgin  was  to  their 
churches  at  home  ;  and  for  her  father  to  whisper 
her  name  to  one  and  not  to  another  was,  it  seemed 
to  Mazaro,  as  if  the  old  man,  were  he  a  sacristan, 
should  say  to  some  single  worshiper,  "  Here,  you 
may  have  this  madonna  ;  I  make  it  a  present  to 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  169 

you."  Or,  if  such  was  not  the  handsome  young 
Cuban's  feeling,  such,  at  least,  was  the  disguise  his 
jealousy  put  on.  If  Pauline  was  to  be  handed 
down  from  her  niche,  why,  then,  farewell  Cafe  des 
Exiles.  She  was  its  preserving  influence,  she 
made  the  place  holy ;  she  was  the  burning  candles 
on  the  altar.  Surely  the  reader  will  pardon  the 
pen  that  lingers  in  the  mention  of  her. 

And  yet  I  know  not  how  to  describe  the  for- 
bearing, unspoken  tenderness  with  which  all  these 
exiles  regarded  the  maiden.  In  the  balmy  after- 
noons, as  I  have  said,  they  gathered  about  their 
mother's  knee,  that  is  to  say,  upon  the  banquette 
outside  the  door.  There,  lolling  back  in  their 
rocking-chairs,  they  would  pass  the  evening  hours 
with  oft-repeated  tales  of  home  ;  and  the  moon 
would  come  out  and  glide  among  the  clouds  like  a 
silver  barge  among  islands  wrapped  in  mist,  and 
they  loved  the  silently  gliding  orb  with  a  sort  of 
worship,  because  from  her  soaring  height  she  looked 
down  at  the  same  moment  upon  them  and  upon 
their  homes  in  the  far  Antilles.  It  was  somewhat 
thus  that  they  looked  upon  Pauline  as  she  seemed 
to  them  held  up  half  way  to  heaven,  they  knew  not 
how.  Ah  !  those  who  have  been  pilgrims  ;  who 
have  wandered  out  beyond  harbor  and  light ;  whom 
fate  hath  led  in  lonely  paths  strewn  with  thorns  and 
briers  not  of  their  own  sowing  ;  who,  homeless  in 
a  land  of  homes,  see  windows  gleaming  and  doors 


1 70  Old  Creole  Days. 

ajar,  but  not  for  them, — it  is  they  who  well  under- 
stand what  the  worship  is  that  cries  to  any  daughter 
of  our  dear  mother  Eve  whose  footsteps  chance 
may  draw  across  the  path,  the  silent,  beseeching 
cry,  "  Stay  a  little  instant  that  I  may  look  upon 
you.  Oh,  woman,  beautifier  of  the  earth  !  Stay 
till  I  recall  the  face  of  my  sister ;  stay  yet  a  mo- 
ment while  I  look  from  afar,  with  helpless-hanging 
hands,  upon  the  softness  of  thy  cheek,  upon  the 
folded  coils  of  thy  shining  hair  ;  and  my  spirit  shall 
fall  down  and  say  those  prayers  which  I  may  never 
again — God  knoweth — say  at  home." 

She  was  seldom  seen  ;  but  sometimes,  when  the 
lounging  exiles  would  be  sitting  in  their  afternoon 
circle  under  the  eaves,  and  some  old  man  would 
tell  his  tale  of  fire  and  blood  and  capture  and  escape, 
and  the  heads  would  lean  forward  from  the  chair- 
backs  and  a  great  stillness  would  follow  the  ending 
of  the  story,  old  M.  D'Hemecourt  would  all  at 
once  speak  up  and  say,  laying  his  hands  upon  the 
narrator's  knee,  "  Comrade,  your  throat  is  dry, 
here  are  fresh  limes  ;  let  my  dear  child  herself  come 
and  mix  you  a  lemonade."  Then  the  neighbors, 
sitting  about  their  doors,  would  by  and  by  softly 
say,  "  See,  see  !  there  is  Pauline  !  "  and  all  the  ex- 
iles would  rise  from  their  rocking-chairs,  take  off 
their  hats  and  stand  as  men  stand  in  church,  while 
Pauline  came  out  like  the  moon  from  a  cloud,  de 
scended  the  three  steps  of  the  cafe  door,  and  stood 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  1 7 1 

with  waiter  and  glass,  like  Rebecca  with  her  pitcher, 
before  the  swarthy  wanderer. 

What  tales  that  would  have  been  tear-compelling, 
nay,  heart-rending,  had  they  not  been  palpable  in- 
ventions, the  pretty,  womanish  Mazaro  from  time  to 
time  poured  forth,  in  the  ever  ungratified  hope  that 
the  goddess  might  come  down  with  a  draught  of 
nectar  for  him,  it  profiteth  not  to  recount ;  but  I 
should  fail  to  show  a  family  feature  of  the  Cafe  des 
Exiles  did  I  omit  to  say  that  these  make-believe 
adventures  were  heard  with  every  mark  of  respect 
and  credence  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  they  were 
never  attempted  in  the  presence  of  the  Irishman. 
He  would  have  moved  an  eyebrow,  or  made  some 
barely  audible  sound,  or  dropped  some  seem- 
ingly innocent  word,  and  the  whole  company, 
spite  of  themselves,  would  have  smiled.  Where- 
fore, it  may  be  doubted  whether  at  any  time  the 
curly-haired  young  Cuban  had  that  playful  affection 
for  his  Celtic  comrade,  which  a  habit  of  giving  lit- 
tle velvet  taps  to  Galahad's  cheek  made  a  show  of. 

Such  was  the  Cafe  des  Exiles,  such  its  inmates, 
such  its  guests,  when  certain  apparently  trivial 
events  began  to  fall  around  it  like  germs  of  blight 
upon  corn,  and  to  bring  about  that  end  which  com- 
eth  to  all  things. 

The  little  seed  of  jealousy  dropped  into  the  heart 
of  Manuel  Mazaro  we  have  already  taken  into  ac- 
count. 


172  Old  Creole  Days. 

Galahad  Shaughnessy  began  to  be  specially  active 
in  organizing  a  society  of  Spanish  Americans,  the 
design  of  which,  as  set  forth  in  its  manuscript  con- 
stitution, was  to  provide  proper  funeral  honors  to 
such  of  their  membership  as  might  be  overtaken  by 
death  ;  and,  whenever  it  was  practicable,  to  send 
their  ashes  to  their  native  land.  Next  to  Galahad 
in  this  movement  was  an  elegant  old  Mexican  phy- 
sician, Dr.  ,  — his  name  escapes  me — whom 

the  Cafe  des  Exiles  sometimes  took  upon  her  lap- 
that  is  to  say  door-step — but  whose  favorite  resort 
was  the  old  Caf£  des  ReTugies  in  the  rue  Royale 
(Royal-street,  as  it  was  beginning  to  be  called). 
Manuel  Mazaro  was  made  secretary. 

It  was  for  some  reason  thought  judicious  for  the 
society  to  hold  its  meetings  in  various  places,  now 
here,  now  there  ;  but  the  most  frequent  rendezvous 
was  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  ;  it  was  quiet ;  those  .Span- 
ish Creoles,  however  they  may  afterward  cackle, 
like  to  lay  their  plans  noiselessly,  like  a  hen  in  a 
barn.  There  was  a  very  general  confidence  in  this 
old  institution,  a  kind  of  inward  assurance  that 
"  mother  wouldn't  tell  ;  "  though,  after  all,  what 
great  secrets  could  there  be  connected  with  a  mere 
burial  society  ? 

Before  the  hour  of  meeting,  the  Cafe  des  Exiles 
always  sent  away  her  children  and  closed  her  door. 
Presently  they  would  commence  returning,  one  by 
one,  as  a  flock  of  wild  fowl  will  do,  that  has  been 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  1 73 

startled  up  from  its  accustomed  haunt.  Frequent- 
ers of  the  Cafe  des  Refugies  also  would  appear.  A 
small  gate  in  the  close  garden-fence  let  them  into 
a  room  behind  the  cafe  proper,  and  by  and  by  the 
apartment  would  be  full  of  dark-visaged  men  con- 
versing in  the  low,  courteous  tone  common  to  their 
race.  The  shutters  of  doors  and  windows  were 
closed  and  the  chinks  stopped  with  cotton  ;  some 
people  are  so  jealous  of  observation. 

On  a  certain  night  after  one  of  these  meetings 
had  dispersed  in  its  peculiar  way,  the  members  re- 
tiring two  by  two  at  intervals,  Manuel  Mazaro 
and  M.  D'Hemecourt  were  left  alone,  sitting  close 
together  in  the  dimly  lighted  room,  the  former 
speaking,  the  other,  with  no  pleasant  counte- 
nance, attending.  It  seemed  to  the, young  Cuban 
a  proper  precaution — he  was  made  of  precau- 
tions— to  speak  in  English.  His  voice  was  barely 
audible. 

" sayce  to  me,  '  Manuel,  she  t-theeng  I 

want-n  to  marry  hore.'  Seflor,  you  shouth  'ave 
see'  him  laugh  !  " 

M.  D'Hemecourt  lifted  up  his  head,  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  young  man's  arm. 

"  Manuel  Mazaro,"  he  began,  "  iv  dad  w'ad  you 
say  is  nod " 

The  Cuban  interrupted. 

"  If  is  no'  t-thrue  you  will  keel  Manuel  Mazaro  ? 
^a'  r-r-right-a !  " 


1 74  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  No,"  said  the  tender  old  man,  "  no,  bud  h-I 
am  positeef  dad  de  Madjor  will  shood  you." 

Mazaro  nodded,  and  lifted  one  finger  for  atten- 
tion. 

" sayce  to  me,  'Manuel,  you  goin'  tell-a 

Sefior  D'Hemecourt  I  fin'-a  you  some  nigh'  an' 
cut-a  you'  heart  ou'.'  An'  I  sayce  to  heem-a, 
'Boat-a  if  Sefior  D'Hemecourt  he  fin'-in'  ou'  frone 
Pauline " 

"  Silence  !  "  fiercely  cried  the  old  man.  "My 
God  !  'Sieur  Mazaro,  neideryou,  neider  somebody 
helse  s'all  h'use  de  nem  of  me  daughter.  It  is  nod 
possib'  dad  you  s'all  spick  him  !  I  cannot  pearmid 
fluid." 

While  the  old  man  was  speaking  these  vehement 
words,  the  Cuban  was  emphatically  nodding  ap- 
proval. 

"Co-rect-a,  correct -a,  Sefior,"  he  replied. 
"  Seftor,  you'  r  -r  -  right  -  a  ;  escuse  -  a  me,  Seflor, 
escuse  -  a  me.  Senor  D  '  Hemecourt,  Mayor 
Shaughness',  when  he  talkin'  wi'  me  he  usin'  hore-a 
name  o  the  t-thime-a  !  " 

"  My  fren',"  said  M.  D'Hemecourt,  rising  and 
speaking  with  labored  control,  "  I  muz  tell  you 
good  nighd.  You  'ave  sooprise  me  a  verry  gred 
deal.  I  s'all  zwvestigade  doze  ting ;  an',  Manuel 
Mazaro,  h-I  am  a  hole  man  ;  bud  I  will  requez  you, 
iv  dad  wad  you  say  is  nod  de  true,  my  God !  not 
to  h-ever  ritturn  again  ad  de  Cafe  des  Exiles." 


Cafe  dcs  Exiles.  175 

Mazaro  smiled  and  nodded.  His  host  opened 
the  door  into  the  garden,  and,  as  the  young  man 
stepped  out,  noticed  even  then  how  handsome  was 
his  face  and  figure,  and  how  the  odor  of  the  night 
•jessamine  was  filling  the  air  with  an  almost  insup- 
portable sweetness.  The  Cuban  paused  a  moment, 
as  if  to  speak,  but  checked  himself,  lifted  his  girlish 
face,  and  looked  up  to  where  the  daggers  of  the 
palmetto-tree  were  crossed  upon  the  face  of  the 
moon,  dropped  his  glance,  touched  his  Panama, 
and  silently  followed  by  the  bare-headed  old  man, 
drew  open  the  little  garden-gate,  looked  cautiously 
out,  said  good-night,  and  stepped  into  the  street. 

As  M.  D'Hemecourt  returned  to  the  door 
through  which  he  had  come,  he  uttered  an  ejacu- 
lation of  astonishment.  Pauline  stood  before  him. 
She  spoke  hurriedly  in  French. 

"  Papa,  papa,  it  is  not  true." 

"  No,  my  child,"  he  responded,  "  I  am  sure  it  is 
not  true  ;  I  am  sure  it  is  all  false  ;  but  why  do  I 
find  you  out  of  bed  so  late,  little  bird  ?  The  night 
is  nearly  gone." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  cheek. 

"  Ah,  papa,  I  cannot  deceive  you.  I  thought 
Manuel  would  tell  you  something  of  this  kind,  and 
I  listened." 

The  father's  face  immediately  betrayed  a  new 
and  deeper  distress. 

"  Pauline,    my   child,"  he    said    with    tremulous 


T  76  Old  Creole  Days. 

voice,  "  if  Manuel's  story  is  all  false,  in  the  name 
of  Heaven  how  could  you  think  he  was  going  to 
tell  it  ?  " 

He  unconsciously  clasped  his  hands.  The  good 
child  had  one  trait  which  she  could  not  have  in- 
herited from  her  father  ;  she  was  quick-witted  and 
discerning  ;  yet  now  she  stood  confounded. 

"  Speak,  my  child,"  cried  the  alarmed  old  man  ; 
"  speak  !  let  me  live,  and  not  die." 

"  Oh,  papa,"  she  cried,  "  I  do  not  know  !  " 

The  old  man  groaned. 

"Papa,  papa,"  she  cried  again,  "I  felt  it;  I 
know  not  how  ;  something  told  me." 

"Alas!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  "if  it  was 
your  conscience  !  " 

"  No,  no,  no,  papa,"  cried  Pauline,  "  but  I  was 
afraid  of  Manuel  Mazaro,  and  I  think  he  hates  him 
— and  I  think  he  will  hurt  him  in  any  way  he  can 
— and  I  know  he  will  even  try  to  kill  him.  Oh  ! 
my  God  !  " 

She  struck  her  hands  together  above  her  head, 
and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  Her  father  looked 
upon  her  with  such  sad  sternness  as  his  tender 
nature  was  capable  of.  He  laid  hold  of  one  of  her 
arms  to  draw  a  hand  from  the  face  whither  both 
hands  had  gone. 

"You  know  something  else,"  he  said;  "you 
know  that  the  Major  loves  you,  or  you  think  so  • 
is  it  not  true  ?  " 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  177 

She  dropped  both  hands,  and,  lifting  her  stream- 
ing eyes  that  had  nothing  to  hide  straight  to  his, 
suddenly  said : 

"  I  would  give  worlds  to  think  so  !  "  and  sunk 
upon  the  floor. 

He  was  melted  and  convinced  in  one  instant. 

"  Oh,  my  child,  my  child,"  he  cried,  trying  to 
lift  her.  "  Oh,  my  poor  little  Pauline,  your  papa  is 
not  angry.  Rise,  my  little  one  ;  so  ;  kiss  me  ; 
Heaven  bless  thee  !  Pauline,  treasure,  what  shall 
I  do  with  thee  ?  Where  shall  I  hide  thee  ?  " 

"  You  have  my  counsel  already,  papa." 

"  Yes,  my  child,  and  you  were  right.  The  Caf£ 
des  Exiles  never  should  have  been  opened.  It  is 
no  place  for  you  ;  no  place  at  all." 

"  Let  us  leave  it,"  said  Pauline. 

"  Ah  !  Pauline,  I  would  close  it  to-morrow  if  I 
could,  but  now  it  is  too  late  ;  I  cannot." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Pauline  pleadingly. 

She  had  cast  an  arm  about  his  neck.  Her  tears 
sparkled  with  a  smile. 

"  My  daughter,  I  cannot  tell  you  ;  you  must  go 
now  to  bed  ;  good-night — or  good-morning  ;  God 
keep  you  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  papa,"  she  said,  "have  no  fear; 
you  need  not  hide  me  ;  I  have  my  prayer-book, 
and  my  altar,  and  my  garden,  and  my  window  ; 
my  garden  is  my  fenced  city,  and  my  window  my 
watch-tower  ;  do  you  see  ?  " 


178  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Ah  !  Pauline,"  responded  the  father,  "  but  I 
have  been  letting  the  enemy  in  and  out  at  pleasure." 

"  Good-night,"  she  answered,  and  kissed  him 
three  times  on  either  cheek  ;  "  the  blessed  Virgin 
will  take  care  of  us  ;  good-night ;  he  never  said 
those  things  ;  not  he  ;  good-night." 

The  next  evening  Galahad  Shaughnessy  and 
Manuel  Mazaro  met  at  that  "  very  different "  place, 
the  Cafe  des  Refugies.  There  was  much  free  talk 
going  on  about  Texan  annexation,  about  chances 
of  war  with  Mexico,  about  San  Domingan  affairs, 
about  Cuba  and  many  et-caeteras.  Galahad  was 
in  his  usual  gay  mood.  He  strode  about  among  a 
mixed  company  of  Louisianais,  Cubans,  and  Am6ri- 
cains,  keeping  them  in  a  great  laugh  with  his  ac- 
count of  one  of  Ole  Bull's  concerts,  and  how  he 
had  there  extorted  an  invitation  from  M.  and  Mme. 
Devoti  to  attend  one  of  their  famous  children's 
fancy  dress  balls. 

"  Halloo  ! "  said  he  as  Mazaro  approached, 
"  heer's  the  etheerial  Angelica  herself.  Look-ut 
heer,  sissy,  why  ar'n't  ye  in  the  maternal  arms  of 
the  Cafe  des  Exiles  ?  " 

Mazaro  smiled  amiably  and  sat  down,  A  mo- 
ment after,  the  Irishman,  stepping  away  from  his 
companions,  stood  before  the  young  Cuban,  and 
asked,  with  a  quiet  business  air  : 

"  D'ye  want  to  see  me,  Mazaro  ?  " 

The  Cuban  nodded,  and  they  went  asicie.     M4- 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  1 79 

zaro,  in  a  few  quick  words,  looking  at  his  pretty  foot 
the  while,  told  the  other  on  no  account  to  go  near 
the  Cafe  des  Exiles,  as  there  were  two  men  hanging 
about  there,  evidently  watching  for  him,  and 

"  Wut's  the  use  o'  that  ?  "  asked  Galahad  ;  "  I 
say,  wut's  the  use  o'  that  ?  " 

Major  Shaughnessy's  habit  of  repeating  part  of 
his  words  arose  from  another,  of  interrupting  any 
person  who  might  be  speaking. 

"  They  must  know — I  say  they  must  know  that 
whenever  I'm  nowhurs  else  I'm  heer.  What  do 
they  want  ?  "  . 

Mazaro  made  a  gesture,  signifying  caution  and 
secrecy,  and  smiled,  as  if  to  say,  "  You  ought  to 
know." 

"  Aha  !  "  said  the  Irishman  softly.  "  Why  don't 
they  come  here  ?  " 

"  Z-afrai',"  said  Mazaro  ;  "  d'they  frai'  to  do 
an'teen  een  d-these-a  crowth." 

"  That's  so,"  said  the  Irishman;  "I  say,  that's 
so.  If  I  don't  feel  very  much  like  go-un,  I'll  not 
go  ;  I  say,  I'll  not  go.  We've  no  business  to-night, 
eh,  Mazaro  ?  " 

"No,  Seftor." 

A  second  evening  was  much  the  same,  Mazaro 
repeating  his  warning.  But  when,  on  the  third 
evening,  the  Irishman  again  repeated  his  willing- 
ness to  stay  away  from  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  unless 
he  should  feel  strongly  impelled  to  go,  it  was  with 


I  So  Old  Creole  Days. 

the  mental  reservation  that  he  did  feel  very  much 
in  that  humor,  and,  unknown  to  Mazaro,  should 
thither  repair,  if  only  to  see  whether  some  of  those 
deep  old  fellows  were  not  contriving  a  practical 
joke. 

"  Mazaro,"  said  he,  "  I'm  go-un  around  the 
caurnur  a  bit ;  I  want  ye  to  wait  heer  till  I  come 
back.  I  say  I  want  ye  to  wait  heer  till  I  come 
back ;  I'll  be  gone  about  three-quarters  of  an 
hour." 

Mazaro  assented.  He  saw  with  satisfaction  the 
Irishman  start  in  a  direction  opposite  that  in  which 
lay  the  Cafe  des  Exiles,  tarried  fifteen  or  twenty 
minutes,  and  then,  thinking  he  could  step  around 
to  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  and  return  before  the  ex- 
piration of  the  allotted  time,  hurried  out. 

Meanwhile  that  peaceful  habitation  sat  jn  the 
moonlight  with  her  children  about  her  feet.  The 
company  outside  the  door  was  somewhat  thinner 
than  common.  M.  D'Hemecourt  was  not  among 
them,  but  was  sitting  in  the  room  behind  the  caf£. 
The  long  table  which  the  burial  society  used  at 
their  meetings  extended  across  the  apartment,  and 
a  lamp  had  been  placed  upon  it.  M.  D'Hemecourt 
sat  by  the  lamp.  Opposite  him  was  a  chair,  which 
seemed  awaiting  an  expected  occupant.  Beside 
the  old  man  sat  Pauline.  They  were  talking  in 
cautious  undertones,  and  in  French. 

"  No,"  she  seemed  to  insist  ;   "we  do  not.  know 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  181 

that  he  refuses  to  come.  We  only  know  that 
Manuel  says  so." 

The  father  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  When  has 
he  ever  stayed  away  three  nights  together  before  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  No,  my  child  ;  it  is  intentional.  Man- 
uel urges  him  to  come,  but  he  only  sends  poor 
excuses." 

"  But,"  said  the  girl,  shading  her  face  from  the 
lamp  and  speaking  with  some  suddenness,  "  why 
have  you  not  sent  word  to  him  by  some  other  per- 
son.? " 

M.  D'Hemecourt  looked  up  at  his  daughter  a 
moment,  and  then  smiled  at  his  own  simplicity. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said.  "  Certainly  ;  and  that  is  what 
I  will — run,  Pauline.  There  is  Manuel,  now,  ahead 
of  time ! " 

A  step  was  heard  inside  the  cafe.  The  maiden, 
though  she  knew  the  step  was  not  Mazaro's,  rose 
hastily,  opened  the  nearest  door,  and  disappeared. 
She  had  barely  closed  it  behind  her  when  Galahad 
Shaughnessy  entered  the  apartment. 

M.  D'Hemecourt  rose  up,  both  surprised  and 
confused. 

"  Good-evening,  Munshcr  D'Himecourt,"  said 
the  Irishman.  "  Munsher  D'Himecourt,  I  know 
it's  against  rules — I  say  I  know  it's  against  rules 
to  come  in  here,  but — "  smiling, — "  I  want  to  have 
a  private  wurd  with  ye.  I  say,  I  want  to  have  a 
private  wurd  with  ye." 


1 82  Old  Creole  Days. 

In  the  closet  of  bottles  the  maiden  smiled  tri 
umphantly.  She  also  wiped  the  dew  from  her  fore- 
head, for  the  place  was  very  close  and  warm. 

With  her  father  was  no  triumph.  In  him  sadness 
and  doubt  were  so  mingled  with  anger  that  he  dared 
not  lift  his  eyes,  but  gazed  at  the  knot  in  the  wood 
of  the  table,  which  looked  like  a  caterpillar  curled 
up.  Mazaro,  he  concluded,  had  really  asked  the 
Major  to  come. 

"  Mazaro  tol'  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Irishman.  "  Mazaro  told 
me  I  was  watched,  and  asked " 

"  Madjor,"  unluckily  interrupted  the  old  man, 
suddenly  looking  up  and  speaking  with  subdued 
fervor.  "  For  w'y — iv  Mazaro  tol'  you — for  w'y 
you  din  come  more  sooner  ?  Dad  is  one  'eavy 
charge  again'  you." 

"  Didn't  Mazaro  tell  ye  why  I  didn't  come  ?  " 
asked  the  other,  beginning  to  be  puzzled  at  his 
host's  meaning. 

"  Yez,"  replied  M.  D'Hemecourt,  "bud  one  brev 
zhenteman  should  not  be  afraid  of 

The  young  man  stopped  him  with  a  quiet  laugh. 

"  Munsher  D'Himecourt,"  said  he,  "'  I'm  nor 
afraid  of  any  two  men  living — I  say  I'm  nor  afraid 
of  any  two  men  living,  and  certainly  not  of  the  two 
that's  bean  a-watchin'  me  lately,  if  they're  the  two 
I  think  they  are." 

M.  D'Hemecourt  flushed  in  a  way  quite  incom- 


Cafe  des  Exil&s.  183 

prehensible  to  the  speaker,  who  nevertheless  con- 
tinued : 

"  It  was  the  charges,"  he  said,  with  some  slyness 
in  his  smile.  "  They  are  heavy,  as  ye  say,  and 
that's  the  very  reason — I  say  that's  the  very  reason 
why  I  stayed  away,  ye  see,  eh  ?  I  say  that's  the 
very  reason  I  stayed  away." 

Then,  indeed,  there  was  a  dew  for  the  maiden 
to  wipe  from  her  brow,  unconscious  that  every 
word  that  was  being  said  bore  a  different  signifi- 
cance in  the  mind  of  each  of  the  three.  The  old 
man  was  agitated. 

"  Bud,  sir,"  he  began,  shaking  his  head  and  lift- 
ing his  hand  : 

"  Bless  yer  soul,  Munsher  D'Himecourt,"  inter- 
rupted the  Irishman.  "  Wut's  the  use  o'  grapplin' 
two  cut-throats,  when " 

"  Madjor  Shaughnessy  !  "  cried  M.  D'Heme- 
court,  losing  all  self-control.  "  H-I  am  nod  a  cud- 
troad,  Madjor  Shaughnessy,  h-an  I  'ave  a  r-r-righd 
to  wadge  you." 

The  Major  rose  from  his  chair. 

"What  d'ye  mean?"  he  asked  vacantly,  and 
then  :  "  Look-ut  here,  Munsher  D'Himecourt,  one 
of  uz  is  crazy.  I  say  one " 

"  No,  sar-r-r  !  "  cried  the  other,  rising  and  clench- 
ing his  trembling  fist.  "  H-I  am  nod  crezzy. 
I'ave  de  righd  to  wadge  dad  man  wad  mague  rim- 
ark  aboud  me  dotter." 


184  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  I  never  did  no  such  a  thing." 

"You  did." 

"I  never  did  no  such  a  thing." 

"  Bud  you  'ave  jus  hacknowledge'," 

"  I  never  did  no  such  a  thing,  I  tell  ye,  and  the 
man  that's  told  ye  so  is  a  liur." 

"  Ah-h-h-h  !  "  said  the  old  man,  wagging  his 
finger.  "  Ah-h-h-h !  You  call  Manuel  Mazaro 
one  liar  ?  " 

The  Irishman  laughed  out. 

"  Well,  I  should  say  so  !  " 

He  motioned  the  old  man  into  his  chair,  and 
both  sat  down  again. 

"  Why,  Munsher  D'Himecourt,  Mazaro's  been 
keepin'  me  away  from  heer  with  a  yarn  about  two 
Spaniards  watchin'  for  me.  That's  what  I  came  in 
to  ask  ye  about.  My  dear  sur,  do  ye  s'pose  I  wud 
talk  about  the  goddess — I  mean,  yer  daughter — to 
the  likes  o'  Mazaro — I  say  to  the  likes  o'  Mazaro  ?  " 

To  say  the  old  man  was  at  sea  would  be  too 
feeble  an  expression — he  was  in  the  trough  of  the 
sea,  with  a  hurricane  of  doubts  and  fears  whirling 
around  him.  Somebody  had  told  a  lie,  and  he, 
having  struck  upon  its  sunken  surface,  was  dazed 
and  stunned.  He  opened  his  lips  to  say  he  knew 
not  what,  when  his  ear  caught  the  voice  of  Manuel 
Mazaro,  replying  to  the  greeting  of  some  of  his 
comrades  outside  the  front  door. 

"  He  is  comin' !  "  cried  the  old  man.     "  Mague 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  185 

you'sev  hide,  Madjor ;  do  not  led  'im  kedge  you, 
Mon  Dieu  ! 

The  Irishman  smiled. 

"  The  little  yellow  wretch  !  "  said  he  quietly,  his 
blue  eyes  dancing.  "  I'm  goin'  to  catch  him." 

A  certain  hidden  hearer  instantly  made  up  her 
mind  to  rush  out  between  the  two  young  men  and 
be  a  heroine. 

"  Non,  non!"  exclaimed  M.  D'Hemecourt  ex- 
citedly. "  Nod  in  de  Gate  des  Exiles — nod  now, 
Madjor.  Go  in  dad  door,  hif  you  pliz,  Madjor. 
You  will  heer  'im  w'at  he  'ave  to  say.  Mague 
you'sev  de  troub'.  Nod  dad  door — diz  one." 

The  Major  laughed  again  and  started  toward  the 
door  indicated,  but  in  an  instant  stopped. 

"  I  cant  go  in  theyre,"  he  said.  "  That's  yer 
daughter's  room." 

"  Out,  out,  mais !  "  cried  the  other  softly,  but 
Mazaro's  step  was  near. 

"  I'll  just  slip  in  heer,"  said  the  amused  Shaugh- 
nessy,  tripped  lightly  to  the  closet  door,  drew  it 
open  in  spite  of  a  momentary  resistance  from  with- 
in which  he  had  no  time  to  notice,  stepped  into  a 
small  recess  full  of  shelves  and  bottles,  shut  the 
door,  and  stood  face  to  face — the  broad  moonlight 
shining  upon  her  through  a  small,  high-grated 
opening  on  one  side — with  Pauline.  At  the  same 
instant  the  voice  of  the  young  Cuban  sounded  in 
the  room. 


1 86  Old  Creole  Days. 

Pauline  was  in  a  great  tremor.  She  made  as  if 
she  would  have  opened  the  door  and  fled,  but  the 
Irishman  gave  a  gesture  of  earnest  protest  and  re- 
assurance. The  re-opened  door  might  make  the 
back  parlor  of  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  a  scene  of  blood. 
Thinking  of  this,  what  could  she  do  ?  She  stayed. 

"You  goth  a  heap-a  thro-vle,  Seflor,"  said  Man- 
uel Mazaro,  taking  the  seat  so  lately  vacated.  He 
had  patted  M.  D'Hemecourt  tenderly  on  the  back 
and  the  old  gentleman  had  flinched  ;  hence  the  re- 
mark, to  which  there  was  no  reply. 

"  Was  a  bee  crowth  a'  the  Caftf  the  Rdftigids" 
continued  the  young  man. 

"  Bud,  w'ere  dad  Madjor  Shaughnessy  ?  "  de- 
manded M.  D'Hemecourt,  with  the  little  sternness 
he  could  command. 

"  Mayor  Shaughness' — yez-a  ;  was  there  ;  boat- 
a,"  with  a  disparaging  smile  and  shake  of  the  head, 
"  he  woon-a  come-a  to  you,  Seflor,  oh  !  no." 

The  old  man  smiled  bitterly, 

"  Non  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,  Seflor  ! "  Mazaro  drew  his  chair 
closer.  "  Seflor  ;  "  he  paused, — "  eez  a-vary  barh-a 
fore-a  you  thaughter,  eh  ?  " 

"  Wat  ?  "  asked  the  host,  snapping  like  a  tor- 
mented dog. 

"  D-theze  talkin'  'bou',"  answered  the  young 
man  ;  "  d-theze  coffee-howces  noth  a  goo'  plaze-a 
fore  hore,  eh  ?  " 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  187 

The  Irishman  and  the  maiden  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  an  instant,  as  people  will  do  when  list- 
ening ;  but  Pauline's  immediately  fell,  and  when 
Mazaro's  words  Were  understood,  her  blushes  be- 
came visible  even  by  moonlight. 

"  He's  r-right  !  "  emphatically  whispered  Gala- 
had. 

She  attempted  to  draw  back  a  step,  but  found 
herself  against  the  shelves.  M.  D'Hemecourt  had 
not  answered.  Mazaro  spoke  again. 

"  Boat-a  you  canno'  help-a,  eh  ?  "  I  know,  'out-a 
she  gettin'  marry,  eh  ?  " 

Pauline  trembled.  Her  father  summoned  all 
his  force  and  rose  as  if  to  ask  his  questioner  to 
leave  him  ;  but  the  handsome  Cuban  motioned 
him  down  with  a  gesture  that  seemed  to  beg  for 
only  a  moment  more. 

"  Seflor,  if  a-was  one  man  whath  lo-va  you' 
thaughter,  all  is  possiblee  to  lo-va." 

Pauline,  nervously  braiding  some  bits  of  wire 
which  she  had  unconsciously  taken  from  a  shelf, 
glanced  up — against  her  will, — into  the  eyes  of 
Galahad.  They  were  looking  so  steadily  down 
upon  her  that  with  a  great  leap  of  the  heart  for 
joy  she  closed  her  own  and  half  turned  away. 
But  Mazaro  had  not  ceased. 

"  All  is  possiblee  to  lo-va,  Seflor,  you  shouth-a 
let  marry  hore  an'  tak'n  'way  frone  d'these  plaze. 
Senor." 


1 88  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Manuel  Mazaro,"  said  M.  D'Hemecourt,  again 
rising,  "you  'ave  say  enough." 

"  No,  no,  Seftor ;  no,  no  ;  I  want  tell-a  you — is 
a-one  man — whath  lo-va  you'  thaughter ;  an'  I 
knowce  him  !  " 

Was  there  no  cause  for  quarrel,  after  all  ?  Could 
it  be  that  Mazaro  was  about  to  speak  for  Galahad  ? 
The  old  man  asked  in  his  simplicity  : 

"  Madjor  Shaughnessy  ?  " 

Mazaro  smiled  mockingly 

"Mayor  Shaughness',"  he  said;  "oh,  no;  not 
Mayor  Shaughness' !  " 

Pauline  could  stay  no  longer  ;  escape  she  must, 
though  it  be  in  Manuel  Mazaro's  very  face.  Turn- 
ing again  and  looking  up  into  Galahad's  face  in  a 
great  fright,  she  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  but 

"  Mayor  Shaughness',"  continued  the  Cuban  ; 
"  he  nev'r-a  lo-va  you'  thaughter." 

Galahad  was  putting  the  maiden  back  from  the 
door  with  his  hand. 

"  Pauline,"  he  said,  "  it's  a  lie  !  " 

"  An',  Sefior,"  pursued  the  Cuban,  "  if  a  was 
possiblee  you'  thaughter  to  lo-va  heem,  a-wouth-a 
be  worse-a  kine  in  worlt ;  but,  Sefior,  / — 

M.  D'Hemecourt  made  a  majestic  sign  for  si- 
lence. He  had  resumed  his  chair,  but  he  rose  up 
once  more,  took  the  Cuban  s  hat  from  the  table 
and  tendered  it  to  him. 

"  Manuel  Mazaro,  you  'ave " 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  189 

"  Seftor,  I  goin'  tell  you " 

"  Manuel  Mazaro,  you " 

"Boat-a,  Seilor " 

"  Bud,  Manuel  Maz " 

"  Seflor,  escuse-a  me " 

"  Huzh  !  "  cried  the  old  man.  "  Manuel  Mazaro, 
you  'ave  desceive'  me  !  You  'ave  mocque  me, 
Manu " 

"  Senor,"  cried  Mazaro,  "  I  swear-a  to  you  that 
all-a  what  I  sayin'  ees-a " 

He  stopped  aghast.  Galahad  and  Pauline  stood 
before  him. 

"  Is  what  ?  "  asked  the  blue-eyed  man,  with  a 
look  of  quiet  delight  on  his  face,  such  as  Mazaro 
instantly  remembered  to  have  seen  on  it  one  night 
when  Galahad  was  being  shot  at  in  the  Sucking 
Calf  Restaurant  in  St.  Peter-street. 

The  table  was  between  them,  but  Mazaro's  hand 
went  upward  toward  the  back  of  his  coat-collar. 

"  Ah,  ah  !  "  cried  the  Irishman,  shaking  his  head 
with  a  broader  smile  and  thrusting  his  hand  threat- 
eningly into  his  breast ;  "  don't  ye  do  that !  just 
finish  yer  speech." 

"  Was-a  notthin',"  said  the  Cuban,  trying  to 
smile  back. 

"  Yer  a  liur,"  said  Galahad. 

"  No,"  said  Mazaro,  still  endeavoring  to  smile 
through  his  agony ;  "  z-was  on'y  tellin'  Seftor 
D'Hemecourt  someteen  z  was  t-thrue." 


1 90  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  And  I  tell  ye,"  said  Galahad,  "  ye'r  a  liur,  and 
to  be  so  kind  an'  get  yersel'  to  the  front  stoop,  as 
I'm  desiruz  o'  kickin'  ye  before  the  crowd." 

"  Madjor  !  "  cried  D'Hemecourt — 

"  Go,"  said  Galahad,  advancing  a  step  toward 
the  Cuban. 

Had  Manuel  Mazaro  wished  to  personate  the 
prince  of  darkness,  his  beautiful  face  had  the  cor- 
rect expression  for  it.  He  slowly  turned,  opened 
the  door  into  the  cafe,  sent  one  glowering  look  be- 
hind, and  disappeared. 

Pauline  laid  her  hand  upon  her  lover's  arm. 

"  Madjor,"  began  her  father. 

"  Oh,  Madjor  and  Madjor,"  said  the  Irishman ; 
"  Munsher  D'Hemecourt,  just  say  '  Madjor,  heer's 
a  gude  wife  fur  ye,'  and  I'll  let  the  little  serpent 

go-" 

Thereupon,  sure  enough,  both  M.  D'Hemecourt 
and  his  daughter,  rushing  together,  did  what  I 
have  been  hoping  all  along,  for  the  reader's  sake, 
they  would  have  dispensed  with  ;  they  burst  into 
tears  ;  whereupon  the  Major,  with  his  Irish  appre- 
ciation of  the  ludicrous,  turned  away  to  hide  his 
smirk  and  began  good-humoredly  to  scratch  him- 
self first  on  the  temple  and  then  on  the  thigh. 

Mazaro  passed  silently  through  the  group  about 
the  door- steps,  and  not  many  minutes  afterward, 
Galahad  Shaughnessy,  having  taken  a  place  among 
the  exiles,  rose  with  the  remark  that  the  old 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  191 

gentleman  would  doubtless  be  willing  to  tell  them 
good-night.  Good- night  was  accordingly  said,  the 
Cafe  des  Exiles  closed  her  windows,  then  her  doors, 
winked  a  moment  or  two  through  the  cracks  in 
the  shutters  and  then  went  fast  asleep. 

The  Mexican  physician,  at  Galahad's  request, 
told  Mazaro  that  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  burial 
society  he  might  and  must  occupy  his  accus- 
tomed seat  without  fear  of  molestation  ;  and  he 
did  so. 

The  meeting  took  place  some  seven  days  after 
the  affair  in  the  back  parlor,  and  on  the  same 
ground.  Business  being  finished,  Galahad,  who 
presided,  stood  up,  looking,  in  his  white  duck  suit 
among  his  darkly-clad  companions,  like  a  white 
sheep  among  black  ones,  and  begged  leave  to 
order  "  dlasses "  from  the  front  room.  I  say 
among  black  sheep ;  yet,  I  suppose,  than  that 
double  row  of  languid,  effeminate  faces,  one 
would  have  been  taxed  to  find  a  more  harmless- 
looking  company.  The  glasses  were  brought  and 
filled. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Galahad,  "  comrades,  this 
may  be  the  last  time  we  ever  meet  together  an  un- 
broken body." 

Martinez  of  San  Domingo,  he  of  the  horrible 
experience,  nodded  with  a  lurking  smile,  curled  a 
leg  under  him  and  clasped  his  fingers  behind  his 
head. 


192  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Who  knows,"  continued  the  speaker,  "  but 
Sefior  Benito,  though  strong  and  sound  and  har'ly 
thirty-seven  " — here  all  smiled — "  may  be  taken  ill 
to-morrow  ?  " 

Martinez  smiled  across  to  the  tall,  gray  Benito 
on  Galahad's  left,  and  he,  in  turn,  smilingly  showed 
to  the  company  a  thin,  white  line  of  teeth  between 
his  moustachios  like  distant  reefs. 

"  Who  knows,"  the  young  Irishman  proceeded 
to  inquire,  "  I  say,  who  knows  but  Pedro,  theyre, 
may  be  struck  wid  a  fever  ?  " 

Pedro,  a  short,  compact  man  of  thoroughly 
mixed  blood,  and  with  an  eyebrow  cut  away, 
whose  surname  no  one  knew,  smiled  his  acknowl- 
edgments. 

"Who  knows?"  resumed  Galahad,  when  those 
who  understood  English  had  explained  in  Spanish 
to  those  who  did  not,  "but  they  may  soon  need 
the  services  not  only  of  our  good  doctor  heer,  but 
of  our  society  ;  and  that  Fernandez  and  Benigno, 
and  Gonzalez  and  Dominguez,  may  not  be  chosen 
to  see,  on  that  very  schooner  lying  at  the  Pica- 
yune Tier  just  now,  their  beloved  remains  and  so 
forth  safely  delivered  into  the  hands  and  lands  of 
their  people.  I  say,  who  knows  bur  it  may  be  so  ?  " 

The  company  bowed  graciously  as  who  should 
say,  "Well-turned  phrases,  Sefior — well-turned." 

"  And  amigos,  if  so  be  that  such  is  their  ap 
prooching  fate,  I  will  say :  " 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  193 

He  lifted  his  glass,  and  the  rest  did  the  same. 

"  I  say,  I  will  say  to  them,  Creoles,  country- 
men, and  lovers,  boun  voyadge  an'  good  luck  to 
ye's." 

For  several  moments  there  was  much  translat- 
ing, bowing,  and  murmured  acknowledgments ; 
Mazaro  said  :  "  Bueno  !  "  and  all  around  among 
the  long  double  rank  of  moustachioed  lips  amiable 
teeth  were  gleaming,  some  white,  some  brown,  some 
yellow,  like  bones  in  the  grass. 

"And  now,  gentlemen,"  Galahad  recommenced, 
"fellow-exiles,  once  more.  Munsher  D'Hime- 
court,  it  was  yer  practice,  until  lately,  to  reward  a 
good  talker  with  a  dlass  from  the  hands  o'  yer 
daughter."  (Si,  si  !}  "  I'm  bur  a  poor  speaker." 
(Si,  si,  Senor,  z-a-fine-a  kin' -a  can  be;  si!} 
"  However,  I'll  ask  ye,  not  knowun  bur  it  may  be 
the  last  time  we  all  meet  together,  if  ye  will  not  let 
the  goddess  of  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  grace  our  com- 
pany with  her  presence  for  just  about  one  minute  ?  " 
(  Ye s- a,  Senor  ;  si;  yez-a  ;  oiti.} 

Every  head  was  turned  toward  the  old  man,  nod- 
ding the  echoed  request. 

"  Ye  see,  friends,"  said  Galahad  in  a  true  Irish 
whisper,  as  M.  D'Hemecourt  left  the  apartment, 
"  her  poseetion  has  been  a-growin'  more  and  more 
embarrassin'  daily,  and  the  operaytions  of  our  soci- 
ety were  likely  to  make  it  wurse  in  the  future  ; 
wherefore  I  have  lately  taken  steps — I  say  I  tuke 


194  Old  Creole  Days. 

steps  this  morn  to  relieve  the  old  gentleman's  dis- 
tresses and  his  daughter's " 

He  paused.  M.  D'Kemecourt  entered  with 
Pauline,  and  the  exiles  all  rose  up.  Ah  ! — but  why 
say  again  she  was  lovely  ? 

Galahad  stepped  forward  to  meet  her,  took  her 
hand,  led  her  to  the  head  of  the  board,  and  turning 
to  the  company,  said  : 

"  Friends  and  fellow-patriots,  Misthress  Shaugh- 
nessy." 

There  was  no  outburst  of  astonishment — only 
the  same  old  bowing,  smiling,  and  murmuring  of 
compliment.  Galahad  turned  with  a  puzzled  look 
to  M.  D'Hemecourt,  and  guessed  the  truth.  In 
the  joy  of  an  old  man's  heart  he  had  already  that 
afternoon  told  the  truth  to  each  and  every  man 
separately,  as  a  secret  too  deep  for  them  to  reveal, 
but  too  sweet  for  him  to  keep.  The  Major  and  Pau- 
line were  man  and  wife. 

The  last  laugh  that  was  ever  heard  in  the  Cafe 
des  Exiles  sounded  softly  through  the  room. 

"Lads,"  said  the  Irishman.  "  Fill  yer  dlasses. 
Here's  to  the  Cafe  des  Exiles,  God  bless  her  !  " 

And  the  meeting  slowly  adjourned. 

Two  days  later,  signs  and  rumors  of  sickness 
began  to  find  place  about  the  Cafe  des  Re'fugie's, 
and  the  Mexican  physician  made  three  calls  in  one 
day.  It  was  said  by  the  people  around  that  the 
tall  Cuban  gentleman  named  Benito  was  very  sick 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  195 

in  one  of  the  back  rooms.  A  similar  frequency  of 
the  same  physician's  calls  was  noticed  about  the 
Cafe  des  Exiles. 

"The  man  with  one  eyebrow,"  said  the  neigh- 
bors, "  is  sick.  Pauline  left  the  house  yesterday  to 
make  room  for  him." 

"  Ah  !  is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  really  true  ;  she  and  her  husband. 
She  took  her  mocking-bird  with  her  ;  he  carried  it ; 
he  came  back  alone." 

On  the  next  afternoon  the  children  about  the 
Cafe  des  Refugies  enjoyed  the  spectacle  of  the  in- 
valid Cuban  moved  on  a  trestle  to  the  Cafe"  des 
Exiles,  although  he  did  not  look  so  deathly  sick  as 
they  could  have  liked  to  see  him,  and  on  the  fourth 
morning  the  doors  of  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  remained 
closed.  A  black-bordered  funeral  notice,  veiled 
with  crape,  announced  that  the  great  Caller- home 
of  exiles  had  served  his  summons  upon  Don  Pedro 
Hernandez  (surname  borrowed  for  the  occasion), 
and  Don  Carlos  Mendez  y  Benito. 

The  hour  for  the  funeral  was  fixed  at  four  P.  M. 
It  never  took  place.  Down  at  the  Picayune  Tier 
on  the  river  bank  there  was,  about  two  o'clock 
that  same  day,  a  slight  commotion,  and  those  who 
stood  aimlessly  about  a  small,  neat  schooner,  said 
she  was  "  seized."  At  four  there  suddenly  ap- 
peared before  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  a  squad  of  men 
with  silver  crescents  on  their  breasts — police  offi- 


196  Old  Creole  Days. 

cers.  The  old  cottage  sat  silent  with  closed  doors, 
the  crape  hanging  heavily  over  the  funeral  notice 
like  a  widow's  veil,  the  little  unseen  garden  send- 
ing up  odors  from  its  hidden  censers,  and  the  old 
weeping-willow  bending  over  all. 

"  Nobody  here  ?  "  asks  the  leader. 

The  crowd  which  has  gathered  stares  without 
answering. 

As  quietly  and  peaceably  as  possible  the  officers 
pry  open  the  door.  They  enter,  and  the  crowd 
pushes  in  after.  There  are  the  two  coffins,  looking 
very  heavy  and  solid,  lying  in  state  but  unguarded. 

The  crowd  draws  a  breath  of  astonishment. 
"  Are  they  going  to  wrench  the  tops  off  with  hat- 
chet and  chisel  ?  " 

Rap,  rap,  rap  ;  wrench,  rap,  wrench.  Ah  !  the 
cases  come  open. 

"  Well  kept  ?  "  asks  the  leader  flippantly. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  is  the  reply.     And  then  all  laugh. 

One  of  the  lookers-on  pushes  up  and  gets  a 
glimpse  within. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  ask  the  other  idlers. 

He  tells  one  quietly. 

"What  did  he  say?"  ask  the  rest,  one  of  an- 
other. 

"  He  says  they  are  not  dead  men,  but  new  mus- 
kets  " 

"  Here,  clear  out ! "  cries  an  officer,  and  the 
loiterers  fall  back  and  by  and  by  straggle  off. 


Cafe  des  Exiles.  197 

The  exiles?  What  became  of  them,  do  you 
ask  ?  Why,  nothing  ;  they  were  not  troubled, 
but  they  never  all  came  together  again.  Said 
a  Chief-of- Police  to  Major  Shaughnessy  years  after 
ward  : 

"  Major,  there  was  only  one  thing  that  kept 
your  expedition  from  succeeding — you  were  too 
sly  about  it.  Had  you  come  out  flat  and  said 
what  you  were  doing,  we'd  never  a-said  a  word  to 
you.  But  that  little  fellow  gave  us  the  wink,  and 
then  we  had  to  stop  you." 

And  was  no  one  punished  ?  Alas  !  one  was. 
Poor,  pretty,  curly-headed  traitorous  Mazaro  !  He 
was  drawn  out  of  Carondelet  Canal — cold,  dead  ! 
And  when  his  wounds  were  counted — they  were 
just  the  number  of  the  Cafe"  des  Exile's'  children, 
less  Galahad.  But  the  mother— that  is,  the  old  caf£ 
— did  not  see  it ;  she  had  gone  up  the  night  before 
in  a  chariot  of  fire. 

In  the  files  of  the  old  "  Picayune"  and  "  Price- 
Current"  of  1837  may  be  seen  the  mention  of 
Galahad  Shaughnessy  among  the  merchants — 
"  our  enterprising  and  accomplished  fellow-towns- 
man," and  all  that.  But  old  M.  D'Hemecourt's 
name  is  cut  in  marble,  and  his  citizenship  is  in  "a 
city  whose  maker  and  builder  is  God." 

Only  yesterday  I  dined  with  the  Shaughnessys 
— fine  old  couple  and  handsome.  Their  children 
sat  about  them  and  entertained  me  most  pleas- 


198  Old  Creole  Days. 

antly.  But  there  isn't  one  can  tell  a  tale  as  their 
father  can — 'twas  he  told  me  this  one,  though  here 
and  there  my  enthusiasm  may  have  taken  liber- 
ties. He  knows  the  history  of  every  old  house  in 
the  French  Quarter ;  or,  if  he  happens  not  to 
know  a  true  one,  he  can  make  one  up  as  he  goes 
along. 


"  Posson  Jone"  199 


"POSSON  JONEV* 

To  Jules  St.  Ange — elegant  little  heathen — 
there  yet  remained  at  manhood  a  remembrance 
of  having  been  to  school,  and  of  having  been 
taught  by  a  stony-headed  Capuchin  that  the  world 
is  round — for  example,  like  a  cheese.  This  round 
world  is  a  cheese  to  be  eaten  through,  and  Jules 
had  nibbled  quite  into  his  cheese-world  already  at 
twenty-two. 

He  realized  this  as  he  idled  about  one  Sunday 
morning  where  the  intersection  of  Royal  and  Conti 
Streets  some  seventy  years  ago  formed  a  central 
corner  of  New  Orleans.  Yes,  yes,  the  trouble  was 
he  had  been  wasteful  and  honest.  He  discussed 
the  matter  with  that  faithful  friend  and  confidant, 
Baptiste,  his  yellow  body-servant.  They  con- 
cluded that,  papa's  patience  and  tantes  pin-money 
having  been  gnawed  away  quite  to  the  rind,  there 
were  left  open  only  these  few  easily-enumerated 
resorts  :  to  go  to  work — they  shuddered  ;  to  join 
Major  Innerarity's  filibustering  expedition  ;  or  else 
— why  not  ? — to  try  some  games  of  confidence. 
At  twenty-two  one  must  begin  to  be  something. 

*  Published  in  Appleton's  Journal.     Republished  by  permission. 


2OO  Old  Creole  Days. 

Nothing  else  tempted  ;  could  that  avail  ?  One 
could  but  try.  It  is  noble  to  try  ;  and,  besides, 
they  were  hungry.  If  one  could  "make  the 
friendship  "  of  some  person  from  the  country,  for 
instance,  with  money,  not  expert  at  cards  or  dice, 
but,  as  one  would  say,  willing  to  learn,  one  might 
find  cause  to  say  some  "  Hail  Marys." 

The  sun  broke  through  a  clearing  sky,  and  Bap- 
tiste  pronounced  it  good  for  luck.  There  had  been 
a  hurricane  in  the  night.  The  weed -grown  tile- 
roofs  were  still  dripping,  and  from  lofty  brick  and 
low  adobe  walls  a  rising  steam  responded  to  the 
summer  sunlight.  Up-street,  and  across  the  Rue 
du  Canal,  one  could  get  glimpses  of  the  gardens  in 
Faubourg  Ste. -Marie  standing  in  silent  wretched- 
ness, so  many  tearful  Lucretias,  tattered  victims  of 
the  storm.  Short  remnants  of  the  wind  now  and 
then  came  down  the  narrow  street  in  erratic  puffs 
heavily  laden  with  odors  of  broken  boughs  and 
torn  flowers,  skimmed  the  little  pools  of  rain- 
water in  the  deep  ruts  of  the  unpaved  street,  and 
suddenly  went  away  to  nothing,  like  a  juggler's 
butterflies  or  a  young  man's  money. 

It  was  very  picturesque,  the  Rue  Royale.  The 
rich  and  poor  met  together.  The  locksmith's 
swinging  key  creaked  next  door  to  the  bank ; 
across  the  way,  crouching,  mendicant-like,  in  the 
shadow  of  a  great  importing-house,  was  the  mud 
laboratory  of  the  mender  of  broken  combs.  Light 


"  Posson  Jone"  201 

balconies  overhung  the  rows  of  showy  shops  and 
stores  open  for  trade  this  Sunday  morning,  and 
pretty  Latin  faces  of  the  higher  class  glanced  over 
their  savagely-pronged  railings  upon  the  passers 
below.  At  some  windows  hung  lace  curtains, 
flannel  duds  at  some,  and  at  others  only  the  scrap- 
ing and  sighing  one-hinged  shutter  groaning  to- 
ward Paris  after  its  neglectful  master. 

M.  St.-Ange  stood  looking  up  and  down  the 
street  for  nearly  an  hour.  But  few  ladies,  only 
the  inveterate  mass-goers,  were  out.  About  the 
entrance  of  the  frequent  cafe's  the  masculine  gen- 
tility stood  leaning  on  canes,  with  which  now  one 
and  now  another  beckoned  to  Jules,  some  even 
adding  pantomimic  hints  of  the  social  cup. 

M.  St.-Ange  remarked  to  his  servant  without 
turning  his  head  that  somehow  he  felt  sure  he 
should  soon  return  those  bons  that  the  mulatto  had 
lent  him. 

"  What  will  you  do  with  them  ?  " 

"  Me  !  "  said  Baptiste,  quickly  ;•  "  I  will  go  and 
see  the  bull-fight  in  the  Place  Congo." 

"  There  is  to  be  a  bull-fight  ?  But  where  is  M. 
Cayetano  ?  " 

"  Ah,  got  all  his  affairs  wet  in  the  tornado. 
Instead  of  his  circus,  they  are  to  have  a  bull-fight — 
not  an  ordinary  bull-fight  with  sick  horses,  but  a 
buffalo-and-tiger  fight.  I  would  not  miss  it " 

Two  or  three  persons  ran  to  the  opposite  corner, 


202  Old  Creole  Days. 

and  commenced  striking  at  something  with  their 
canes.  Others  followed.  Can  M.  St.-Ange  and 
servant,  who  hasten  forward — can  the  Creoles, 
Cubans,  Spaniards,  San  Domingo  refugees,  and 
other  loungers — can  they  hope  it  is  a  fight  ?  They 
hurry  forward.  Is  a  man  in  a  fit  ?  The  crowd 
pours  in  from  the  side-streets.  Have  they  killed  a 
so-long  snake  ?  Bareheaded  shopmen  leave  their 
wives,  who  stand  upon  chairs.  The  crowd  hud- 
dles and  packs.  Those  on  the  outside  make  little 
leaps  into  the  air,  trying  to  be  tall. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Have  they  caught  a  real  live  rat  ?  " 

"  Who  is  hurt  ?  "  asks  some  one  in  English. 

"  Personnel  replies  a  shopkeeper;  "a  man's 
hat  blow'  in  the  gutter  ;  but  he  has  it  now.  Jules 
pick'  it.  See,  that  is  the  man,  head  and  shoulders 
on  top  the  res'." 

"  He  in  the  homespun  ?  "  asks  a  second  shop- 
keeper. "  Humph  !  an  Amdricain — a  West-Flori- 
dian  ;  bah  !  " 

"  But  wait ;  'st  !  he  is  speaking  ;  listen  !  " 

"  To  who  is  he  speak ?  " 

"  Sh-sh-sh  !  to  Jules." 

"  Jules  who  ?  " 

"  Silence,  you  !  To  Jules  St.-Ange,  what  howe 
me  a  bill  since  long  time.  Sh-sh-sh  !  " 

Then  the  voice  was  heard. 

Its  owner  was  a  man  of  giant  stature,  with  a 


"  Posson  Jone^  203 

slight  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  as  if  he  was  mak- 
ing a  constant,  good-natured  attempt  to  accommo- 
date himself  to  ordinary  doors  and  ceilings.  His 
bones  were  those  of  an  ox.  His  face  was  marked 
more  by  weather  than  age,  and  his  narrow  brow 
was  bald  and  smooth.  He  had  instantaneously 
formed  an  opinion  of  Jules  St.-Ange,  and  the  mul 
titude  of  words,  most  of  them  lingual  curiosities 
with  which  he  was  rasping  the  wide-open  ears  of 
his  listeners,  signified,  in  short,  that,  as  sure  as  his 
name  was  Parson  Jones,  the  little  Creole  was  a 
"  plum  gentleman." 

M.  St.-Ange  bowed  and  smiled,  and  was  about 
to  call  attention,  by  both  gesture  and  speech,  to  a 
singular  object  on  top  of  the  still  uncovered  head, 
when  the  nervous  motion  of  the  Ame'ricain  antici- 
pated him,  as,  throwing  up  an  immense  hand,  he 
drew  down  a  large  roll  of  bank-notes.  The  crowd 
laughed,  the  West-Floridian  joining,  and  began  to 
disperse. 

"  Why,  that  money  belongs  to  Smyrny  Church," 
said  the  giant. 

"  You  are  very  dengerous  to  make  your  money 
expose  like  that,  Misty  Posson  Jone',"  said  St.- 
Ange,  counting  it  with  his  eyes. 

The  countryman  gave  a  start  and  smile  of  sur- 
prise. 

"  How  d'dyou  know  my  name  was  Jones  ?  "  he 
asked  ;  but,  without  pausing  for  the  Creole's  an- 


204  Old  Creole  Days. 

swer,  furnished  in  his  reckless  way  some  further 
specimens  of  West-Floridian  English  ;  and  the 
conciseness  with  which  he  presented  full  intelli- 
gence of  his  home,  family,  calling,  lodging-house, 
'and  present  and  future  plans,  might  have  passed 
for  consummate  art,  had  it  not  been  the  most  run- 
wild  nature.  "  And  I've  done  been  to  Mobile, 
you  know,  on  business  for  Bethesdy  Church.  It's 
the  on'yest  time  I  ever  been  from  home  ;  now  you 
wouldn't  of  believed  that,  would  you  ?  But  I  ad- 
mire to  have  saw  you,  that's  so.  You've  got  to 
come  and  eat  with  me.  Me  and  my  boy  ain't 
been  fed  yit.  What  might  one  call  yo'  name  ? 
Jools  ?  Come  on,  Jools.  Come  on,  Colossus. 
That's  my  niggah — his  name's  Colossus  of  Rhodes. 
Is  that  yo'  yallah  boy,  Jools  ?  Fetch  him  along. 
Colossus.  It  seems  like  a  special  providence. — 
Jools,  do  you  believe  in  a  special  providence  f  " 

Jules  said  he  did. 

The  new-made  friends  moved  briskly  off,  fol- 
lowed by  Baptiste  and  a  short,  square,  old  negro, 
very  black  and  grotesque,  who  had  introduced 
himself  to  the  mulatto,  with  many  glittering  and 
cavernous  smiles,  as  "  d'body-sarvant  of  d'Rev'n* 
Mr.  Jones." 

Both  pairs  enlivened  their  walk  with  conversa- 
tion. Parson  Jones  descanted  upon  the  doctrine 
he  had  mentioned,  as  illustrated  in  the  perplexities 
of  cotton-growing,  and  concluded  that  there  would 


"  Posson  Jone"  205 

always  be  "  a  special  providence  again'  cotton  un- 
tell  folks  quits  a  pressin'  of  it  and  haulin'  of  it  on 
Sundays.!  " 

"  Je  dis,"  said  St.-Ange,  in  response,  "  I  thing 
you  is  juz  right.  I  believe,  me,  strong-strong  in 
the  improvidence,  yes.  You  know  my  papa  he 
hown  a  sugah-plantation,  you  know.  'Jules,  me 
son,'  he  say  one  time  to  me,  '  I  goin'  to  make  one 
baril  sugah  to  fedge  the  moze  high  price  in  New 
Orleans.'  Well,  he  take  his  bez  baril  sugah — I 
nevah  see  a  so  careful  man  like  rne  papa  always  to 
make  a  so  beautiful  sugah  et  strop.  '  Jules,  go  at 
Father  Pierre  an'  ged  this  lill  pitcher  fill  with  holy- 
water,  an'  tell  him  sen'  his  tin  bucket,  and  I  will 
make  it  fill  with  quitte.''  I  ged  the  holy-water; 
my  papa  sprinkle  it  over  the  baril,  an'  make  one 
cross  on  the  'ead  of  the  baril." 

"Why,  Jools,"  said  Parson  Jones,  "that  didn't 
do  no  good." 

"Din  do  no  good!  Id  broughd  the  so  great 
value  !  You  can  strike  me  dead  if  thad  baril  sugah 
din  fedge  the  more  high  cost  than  any  other  in  the 
city.  Parceque,  the  man  what  buy  that  baril  sugah 
he  make  a  mistake  of  one  hundred  pound  " — falling 
back — "  mats  certainlee  !  " 

"  And  you  think  that  was  growin*  out  of  the 
holy-water  ?  "  asked  the  parson. 

"Mats,  what  could  make  it  else?  Id  could 
not  be  the  quitte,  because  my  papa  keep  the 


206  Old  Creole  Days. 

bucket,  an'  forget  to  sen'  the  quitte  to  Father 
Pierre." 

Parso.n  Jones  was  disappointed. 

"  Well,  now,  Jools,  you  know,  I  don't  think  that 
was  right.  I  reckon  you  must  be  a  plum  Cath- 
olic." 

M.  St.-Ange  shrugged.  He  would  not  deny  his 
faith. 

"  I  am  a  Catholique,  mais" — brightening  as  he 
hoped  to  recommend  himself  anew — "  not  a  good 
one." 

"Well,  you  know,"  said  Jones — "  where's  Co- 
lossus ?  Oh  !  all  right.  Colossus  strayed  off  a 
minute  in  Mobile,  and  I  plum  lost  him  for  two 
days.  Here's  the  place  ;  come  in.  Colossus  and 
this  boy  can  go  to  the  kitchen. — Now,  Colossus, 
what  air  you  a-beckonin'  at  me  faw?  " 

He  let  his  servant  draw  him  aside  and  address 
him  in  a  whisper. 

"  Oh,  go  'way!"  said  the  parson,  with  a  jerk. 
"  Who's  go  in-'  to  throw  me  ?  What  ?  Speak 
louder.  Why,  Colossus,  you  shayn't  talk  so,  saw. 
Ton  my  soul,  you're  the  mightiest  fool  I  ever  taken 
up  with.  Jest  you  go  down  that  alley-way  with 
this  yalla  boy,  and  don't  show  yo'  face  untell  yo' 
called  ! 

The  negro  begged  ;  the  master  wrathily  insisted. 

"  Colossus,  will  you  do  ez  I  tell  you,  or  shell  I 
hev'  to  strike  you,  saw  ?  " 


"  Posson  Jone  "  207 

"  O  Mahs  Jimmy,  I — I's  gwine  ;  but  " —  he  ven- 
tured nearer — "  don't  on  no  account  drink  nothin', 
Mahs  Jimmy." 

Such  was  the  negro's  earnestness  that  he  put  one 
foot  in  the  gutter,  and  fell  heavily  against  his  mas- 
ter. The  parson  threw  him  off  angrily. 

"  Thar,  now  !  Why,  Colossus,  you  most  of  been 
dosted  with  sumthin'  ;  yo'  plum  crazy. — Humph, 
come  on,  Jools,  let's  eat !  Humph  !  to  tell  me 
that  when  I  never  taken  a  drop,  exceptin'  for  chills, 
in  my  life — which  he  knows  so  as  well  as  me  !  " 

The  two  masters  began  to  ascend  a  stair. 

"  Mats,  he  is  a  sassy  ;  I  would  sell  him,  me,"  said 
the  young  Creole. 

"No,  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  replied  the  parson; 
"  though  there  is  people  in  Bethesdy  who  says  he 
is  a  rascal.  He's  a  powerful  smart  fool.  Why, 
that  boy's  got  money,  Jools  ;  more  money  than 
religion,  I  reckon.  I'm  shore  he  fallen  into  mighty 
bad  company  " — they  passed  beyond  earshot. 

Baptiste  and  Colossus,  instead  of  going  to  the 
tavern  kitchen,  passed  to  the  next  door  and  entered 
the  dark  rear  corner  of  a  low  grocery,  where,  the 
law  notwithstanding,  liquor  was  covertly  sold  to 
slaves.  There,  in  the  quiet  company  of  Baptiste 
and  the  grocer,  the  colloquial  powers  of  Colossus, 
which  were  simply  prodigious,  began  very  soon  to 
show  themselves. 

"  For  whilst,"  said  he.     "  Mahs  Jimmy  has  ed« 


208  Old  Creole  Days. 

dication,  you  know — whilst  he  has  eddication,  I 
has  'scretion.  He  has  eddication  and  I  has  'scre- 
tion,  an'  so  we  gits  along." 

He  drew  a  black  bottle  down  the  counter,  and, 
laying  half  his  length  upon  the  damp  board,  con- 
tinued : 

"As  ap'inciple  I  discredits  de  imbimin'  of  avvjus 
liquors.  De  imbimin'  of  awjus  liquors,  de  wiolu- 
tion  of  de  Sabbaf,  de  'playin'  of  de  fiddle,  and  de 
usin'  of  by-words,  dey  is  de  fo'sins  of  de  conscience  ; 
an'  if  any  man  sin  de  fo'sins  of  de  conscience,  de 
debble  done  sharp  his  fork  fo'  dat  man. — Ain't  dat 
so,  boss  ?  " 

The  grocer  was  sure  it  was  so. 

"  Neberdeless,  mind  you" — here  the  orator 
brimmed  his  glass  from  the  bottle  and  swallowed 
the  contents  with  a  dry  eye — "  mind  you,  a  roytious 
man,  sech  as  ministers  of  de  gospel  and  dere 
body-sarvants,  can  take  a  leetle  for  de  weak 
stomach." 

But  the  fascinations  of  Colossus's  eloquence  must 
not  mislead  us  ;  this  is  the  story  of  a  true  Chris- 
tian ;  to  wit,  Parson  Jones. 

The  parson  and  his  new  friend  ate.  But  the 
coffee  M.  St.-Ange  declared  he  could  not  touch  ; 
it  was  too  wretchedly  bad.  At  the  French  Market, 
near  by,  there  was  some  noble  coffee.  This,  how- 
ever, would  have  to  be  bought,  and  Parson  Jones 
had  scruples, 


"Posson  Jone  "  209 

"  You  see,  Jools,  every  man  has  his  conscience 
to  guide  him,  which  it  does  so  in " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  cried  St.-Ange,  "  conscien' ;  thad 
is  the  bez,  Posson  Jone'.  Certainlee !  I  am  a 
Catholique,  you  is  a  schismatique ;  you  thing  it  is 
wrong  to  dring  some  coffee — well,  then,  it  is  wrong; 
you  thing  it  is  wrong  to  make  the  sugah  to  ged  the 
so  large  price — well,  then,  it  is  wrong  ;  I  thing  it 
is  right — well,  then,  it  is  right ;  it  is  all  'abit ;  c'est 
tout.  What  a  man  thing  is  right,  is  right ;  'tis  all 
'abit.  A  man  muz  nod  go  again'  his  conscien'. 
My  faith  !  do  you  thing  I  would  go  again'  my  con- 
scien' ?  Mais  allons,  led  us  go  and  ged  some 
coffee." 

"  Jools." 

"Wat?" 

"  Jools,  it  ain't  the  drinkin'  of  coffee,  but  the 
buyin'  of  it  on  a  Sabbath.  You  must  really  excuse 
me,  Jools,  it's  again'  conscience,  you  know." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  St.-Ange,  "  cesl  very  true.  For 
you  it  would  be  a  sin,  mais  for  me  it  is  only  'abit. 
Rilligion  is  a  very  strange  ;  I  know  a  man  one 
time,  he  thing  it  was  wrong  to  go  to  cock-fight 
Sunday  evening.  I  thing  it  is  all  'abit.  Mais, 
come,  Posson  Jone'  ;  I  have  got  one  friend,  Mig- 
uel ;  led  us  go  at  his  house  and  ged  some  coffee. 
Come ;  Miguel  have  no  familie ;  only  him  and 
Joe — always  like  to  see  friend  ;  allons,  led  us  come 
yonder." 


2io  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Why,  Jools,  my  dear  friend,  you  know,"  said 
the  shame-faced  parson,  "  I  never  visit  on  Sun- 
days." 

"  Never  w'at  ?  "  asked  the  astounded  Creole. 

"  No,"  said  Jones,  smiling  awkwardly. 

"  Never  visite  ?  " 

"  Exceptin'  sometimes  amongst  church-mem- 
bers," said  Parson  Jones. 

"Mais,"  said  the  seductive  St.-Ange,  "Miguel 
and  Joe  is  church-member' — certainlee  !  They 
love  to  talk  about  rilligion.  Come  at  Miguel  and 
talk  about  some  rilligion.  I  am  nearly  expire  for 
me  coffee." 

Parson  Jones  took  his  hat  from  beneath  his  chair 
and  rose  up. 

"  Jools,"  said  the  weak  giant,  "  I  ought  to  be  in 
church  right  now." 

"  Mats,  the  church  is  right  yonder  at  Miguel', 
yes.  Ah!"  continued  St.-Ange,  as  they  de- 
scended the  stairs,  "  I  thing  every  man  muz  have 
the  rilligion  he  like'  the  bez — me,  I  like  the  Catlio- 
lique  riiligion  the  bez — for  me  it  is  the  bez.  Every 
man  will  sure  go  to  heaven  if  he  like  his  rilligion 
the  bez. " 

"  Jools,"  said  the  West-Floridian,  laying  his 
great  hand  tenderly  upon  the  Creole's  shoulder,  as 
they  stepped  out  upon  the  banquette,  "  do  you  think 
you  have  any  shore  hopes  of  heaven  ?  " 

"  Yass  !  "  replied  St.-Ange  ;  "  I  am  sure-sure, 


Posson     one'"  211 


I  thing  everybody  will  go  to  heaven.  I  thing 
you  will  go,  et  I  thing  Miguel  will  go,  et  Joe  —  • 
everybody,  I  thing  —  mats,  hof  course,  not  if  they 
not  have  been  christen'.  Even  I  thing  some  nig- 
gers will  go." 

"  Jools,"  said  the  parson,  stopping  in  his  walk 
—  "  Jools,  I  don't  want  to  lose  my  niggah." 

"You  will  not  loose  him.  With  Baptiste  he 
cannot  ged  loose." 

But  Colossus's  master  was  not  reassured. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  still  tarrying,  "this  is  jest  the 
way  ;  had  I  of  gone  to  church  --  " 

"  Posson  Jone',"  said  Jules. 

"What?" 

"  I  tell  you.     We  goin'  to  church  !  " 

"  Will  you  ?  "  asked  Jones,  joyously. 

"  Allons,  come  along,"  said  Jules,  taking  his 
elbow. 

They  walked  down  the  Rue  Chartres,  passed 
several  corners,  and  by-and-by  turned  into  a  cross- 
street.  The  parson  stopped  an  instant  as  they 
were  turning,  and  looked  back  up  the  street. 

"  W'at  you  lookin'  ?  "  asked  his  companion. 

"  I  thought  I  saw  Colossus,"  answered  the  par- 
son, with  an  anxious  face  ;  "  I  reckon  'twa'n'thim, 
though."  And  they  went  on. 

The  street  they  now  entered  was  a  very  quiet 
one.  The  eye  of  any  chance  passer  would  have 
been  at  once  drawn  to  a  broad,  heavy,  white  brick 


2 1  2  Old  Creole  Days 

edifice  on  the  lower  side  of  the  way,  with  a  flag- 
pole standing  out  like  a  bowsprit  from  one  of  its 
great  windows,  and  a  pair  of  lamps  hanging  before 
a  large  closed  entrance.  It  was  a  theatre,  honey- 
combed with  gambling-dens.  At  this  morning 
hour  all  was  still,  and  the  only  sign  of  life  was  a 
knot  of  little  barefoot  girls  gathered  within  its  nar- 
row shade,  and  each  carrying  an  infant  relative. 
Into  this  place  the  parson  and  M.  St.-Ange  en- 
tered, the  little  nurses  jumping  up  from  the  sills  to 
let  them  pass  in. 

A  half-hour  may  have  passed.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  the  whole  juvenile  company  were  laying 
alternate  eyes  and  ears  to  the  chinks,  to  gather  what 
they  could  of  an  interesting  quarrel  going  on  within. 

"  I  did  not,  saw  !  I  given  you  no  cause  of 
offense,  saw  !  It's  not  so,  saw  !  Mister  Jools 
simply  mistaken  the  house,  thinkin'  it  was  a  Sab- 
bath-school !  No  such  thing,  saw  ;  I  airit  bound 
to  bet  !  Yes,  I  kin  git  out  !  Yes,  without  bettin'  ! 
I  hev  a  right  to  my  opinion  ;  I  reckon  I'm  a  white 
man,  saw  !  No,  saw  1  I  on'y  said  I  didn't  think 
you  could  get  the  game  on  them  cards.  'Sno 
such  thing,  saw  !  I  do  not  know  how  to  play  !  I 
wouldn't  hev  a  rascal's  money  ef  I  should  win  it  ! 
Shoot,  ef  you  dare  !  You  can  kill  me,  but  you 
cayn't  scare  me  !  No,  I  shayn't  bet !  I'll  die 
first  !  Yes,  saw  ;  Mr.  Jools  can.  bet  for  me  if  he 
admires  to  ;  I  ain't  his  mostah." 


' '  Posson  Jone  "  213 

Here  the  speaker  seemed  to  direct  his  words  to 
St.-Ange. 

"  Saw,  I  don't  understand  you,  saw.  I  never 
said  I'd  loan  you  money  to  bet  'for  me.  I  didn't 
suspicion  this  from  you,  saw.  No,  I  won't  take 
any  more  lemonade  ;  it's  the  most  notorious  stuff 
I  ever  drank,  saw  !  " 

M.  St.-Ange's  replies  were  in  falsetto  and  not 
without  effect  ;  for  presently  the  parson's  indigna- 
tion and  anger  began  to  melt.  "  Don't  ask  me, 
Jools,  I  can't  help  you.  It's  no  use  ;  it's  a  matter 
of  conscience  with  me,  Jools." 

"  Mais  out  !  'tis  a  matt'  of  conscien'  wid  me,  the 
same." 

"  But,  Jools,  the  money's  none  o'  mine,  nohow ; 
it  belongs  to  Smyrny,  you  know." 

"  If  I  could  make  jus'  one  bet,"  said  the  persua- 
sive St.-Ange,  "  I  would  leave  this  place,  fas'-fas', 
yes.  If  I  had  thing— mats  I  did  not  soupspicion 
this  from  you,  Posson  Jone' " 

"  Don't,  Jools,  don't  !  " 

"  No  !  Posson  Jone'." 

"  You're  bound  to  win  ? "  said  the  parson, 
wavering. 

"  Mais  certainement !  But  it  is  not  to  win  that 
I  want ;  'tis  me  conscien' — me  honor  !  " 

"  Well,  Jools,  I  hope  I'm  not  a-doin'  no  wrong. 
I'll  loan  you  some  of  this  money  if  you  say  you'll 
come  right  out  'thout  takin'  your  winnin's." 


214  Old  Creole  Days. 

All  was  still.  The  peeping  children  could  see 
the  parson  as  he  lifted  his  hand  to  his  breast- 
pocket. There  it  paused  a  moment  in  bewilder- 
ment, then  plunged  to  the  bottom.  It  came  back 
empty,  and  fell  lifelessly  at  his  side.  His  head 
dropped  upon  his  breast,  his  eyes  were  for  a  mo- 
ment closed,  his  broad  palms  were  lifted  and 
pressed  against  his  forehead,  a  tremor  seized  him, 
and  he  fell  all  in  a  lump  to  the  floor.  The  chil- 
dren ran  off  with  their  infant  loads,  leaving  Jules 
St.-Ange  swearing  by  all  his  deceased  relatives, 
first  tp  Miguel  and  Joe,  and  then  to  the  lifted  par- 
son, that  he  did  not  know  what  had  become  of 
the  money  "  except  if"  the  black  man  had  got  it. 

In  the  rear  of  ancient  New  Orleans,  beyond  the 
sites  of  the  old  rampart,  a  trio  of  Spanish  forts, 
where  the  town  has  since  sprung  up  and  grown 
old,  green  with  all  the  luxuriance  of  the  wild  Creole 
summer,  lay  the  Congo  Plains.  Here  stretched 
the  canvas  of  the  historic  Cayetano,  who  Sunday 
after  Sunday  sowed  the  sawdust  for  his  circus- 
ring. 

But  to-day  the  great  showman  had  fallen  short 
of  his  printed  promise.  The  hurricane  had  come 
by  night,  and  with  one  fell  swash  had  made  an  ir- 
retrievable sop  of  everything.  The  circus  trailed 
away  its  bedraggled  magnificence,  and  the  ring 
was  cleared  for  the  bull. 

Then  the  sun  seemed  to  come  out  and  work  foi 


' '  Posson  Jone"  215 

the  people.  "  See,"  said  the  Spaniards,  looking 
up  at  the  glorious  sky  with  its  great,  white  fleets 
drawn  off  upon  the  horizon — "  see — heaven  smiles 
upon  the  bull-fight  !  " 

In  the  high  upper  seats  of  the  rude  amphitheatre 
sat  the  gayly-decked  wives  and  daughters  of  the 
Gascons,  from  the  mttaries  along  the  Ridge,  and 
the  chattering  Spanish  women  of  the  Market,  their 
shining  hair  unbonneted  to  the  sun.  Next  below 
were  their  husbands  and  lovers  in  Sunday  blouses, 
milkmen,  butchers,  bakers,  black-bearded  fisher- 
men, Sicilian  fruiterers,  swarthy  Portuguese  sailors, 
in  little  woolen  caps,  and  strangers  of  the  graver 
sort ;  mariners  of  England,  Germany,  and  Holland. 
The  lowest  seats  were  full  of  trappers,  smugglers, 
Canadian  voyageurs,  drinking  and  singing  ;  Ameri- 
cains,  too — more's  the  shame — from  the  upper 
rivers — who  will  not  keep  their  seats — who  ply  the 
bottle,  and  who  will  get  home  by-and-by  and  tell 
how  wicked  Sodom  is ;  broad-brimmed,  silver- 
braided  Mexicans,  too,  with  their  copper  cheeks 
and  bat's  eyes,  and  their  tinkling  spurred  heels. 
Yonder,  in  that  quieter  section,  are  the  quadroon 
women  in  their  black  lace  shawls — and  there  is 
Baptiste  ;  and  below  them  are  the  turbaned  black 
women,  and  there  is — but  he  vanishes — Colossus. 

•The  afternoon  is  advancing,  yet  the  sport, 
though  loudly  demanded,  does  not  begin.  The 
Amcricains  grow  derisive  and  find  pastime  in  gibes 


2i6  Old  Creole  Days. 

and  raillery.  They  mock  the  various  Latins  with 
their  national  inflections,  and  answer  their  scowls 
with  laughter.  Some  of  the  more  aggressive 
shout  pretty  French  greetings  to  the  women  of 
Gascony,  and  one  bargeman,  amid  peals  of  ap- 
plause, stands  on  a  seat  and  hurls  a  kiss  to  the 
quadroons.  The  mariners  of  England,  Germany, 
and  Holland,  as  spectators,  like  the  fun,  while  the 
Spaniards  look  black  and  cast  defiant  imprecations 
upon  their  persecutors.  Some  Gascons,  with 
timely  caution,  pick  their  women  out  and  depart, 
running  a  terrible  fire  of  gallantries. 

In  hope  of  truce,  a  new  call  is  raised  for  the 
bull :  "  The  bull,  the  bull  !— hush  !  " 

In  a  tier  near  the  ground  a  man  is  standing  and 
calling — standing  head  and  shoulders  above  the 
rest — calling  in  the  Amtricaine  tongue.  Another 
man,  big  and  red,  named  Joe,  and  a  handsome 
little  Creole  in  elegant  dress  and  full  of  laughter, 
wish  to  stop  him,  but  the  flat-boatmen,  hahaing 
and  cheering,  will  not  suffer  it.  Ah,  through 
some  shameful  knavery  of  the  men,  into  whose 
hands  he  has  fallen,  he  is  drunk  !  Even  the 
women  can  see  that  ;  and  now  he  throws  his  arms 
wildly  and  raises  his  voice  until  the  whole  great 
circle  hears  it.  He  is  preaching  ! 

Ah  !  kind  Lord,  for  a  special  providence  now  ! 
The  men  of  his  own  nation — men  from  the  land  of 
the  open  English  Bible  and  temperance  cup  and 


"  Posson  Jone"  217 

song  are  cheering  him  on  to  mad  disgrace.  And 
now  another  call  for  the  appointed  sport  is 
drowned  by  the  flat-boatmen  singing  the  ancient 
tune  of  Mear.  You  can  hear  the  words — 

"  Old  Grimes  is  dead,  that  good  old  soul " 

— from  ribald  lips  and  throats  turned  brazen  with 
laughter,  from  singers  who  toss  their  hats  aloft 
and  roll  in  their  seats,  the  chorus  swells  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  a  thousand  brogans — 

"  He  used  to  wear  an  old  gray  coat 
All  buttoned  down  before." 

A  ribboned  man  in  the  arena  is  trying  to  be 
heard,  and  the  Latins  raise  one  mighty  cry  for 
silence.  The  big  red  man  gets  a  hand  over  the 
parson's  mouth,  and  the  ribboned  man  seizes  his 
moment. 

"  They  have  been  endeavoring  for  hours,"  he 
says,  "  to  draw  the  terrible  animals  from  their 
dens,  but  such  is  their  strength  and  fierceness, 
that " 

His  voice  is  drowned.  Enough  has  been  heard 
to  warrant  the  inference  that  the  beasts  cannot  be 
whipped  out  of  the  storm-drenched  cages  to 
which  menagerie-life  and  long  starvation  have 
attached  them,  and  from  the  roar  of  indignation 
the  man  of  ribbons  flies.  The  noise  increases, 


2i8  Old  Creole  Days. 

Men  are  standing  up  by  hundreds,  and  women  are 
imploring  to  be  let  out  of  the  turmoil.  All  at 
once,  like  the  bursting  of  a  dam,  the  whole  mass 
pours  down  into  the  ring.  They  sweep  across  the 
arena  and  over  the  showman's  barriers.  Miguel 
gets  a  frightful  trampling.  Who  cares  for  gates  or 
doors  ?  They  tear  the  beasts'  houses  bar  from 
bar,  and,  laying  hold  of  the  gaunt  buffalo,  drag 
him  forth  by  feet,  ears,  and  tail  ;  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  mette>  still  head  and  shoulders  above  all, 
wilder,  with  the  cup  of  the  wicked,  than  any  beast, 
is  the  man  of  God  from  the  Florida  parishes  ! 

In  his  arms  he  bore — and  all  the  people  shouted 
at  once  when  they  saw  it — the  tiger.  He  had 
lifted  it  high  up  with  its  back  to  his  breast,  his 
arms  clasped  under  its  shoulders  ;  the  wretched 
brute  had  curled  up  caterpillar-wise,  with  its  long 
tail  against  its  belly,  and  through  its  filed  teeth 
grinned  a  fixed  and  impotent  wrath.  And  Parson 
Jones  was  shouting  : 

"  The  tiger  and  the  buffler  shell  lay  down  to- 
gether !  You  dah  to  say  they  shayn't  and  I'll 
comb  you  with  this  varmint  from  head  to  foot ! 
The  tiger  and  the  buffier  shell  lay  down  together. 
They  shell !  Now,  you,  Joe  !  Behold  !  I  am  here 
to  see  it  done.  The  lion  and  the  bufrler  shell  lay 
down  together!  " 

Mouthing  these  words  again  and  again,  the  par- 
son forced  his  way  through  the  surge  in  the  wake 


"  Posson  Jone  "  219 

of  the  buffalo.  This  creature  the  Latins  had  se- 
cured by  a  lariat  over  his  head,  and  were  dragging 
across  the  old  rampart  and  into  a  street  of  the  city. 

The  northern  races  were  trying  to  prevent,  and 
there  was  pommeling  and  knocking  down,  cursing 
and  knife-drawing,  until  Jules  St.-Ange  was  quite 
carried  away  with  the  fun,  laughed,  clapped  his 
hands,  and  swore  with  delight,  and  ever  kept  close 
to  the  gallant  parson. 

Joe,  contrariwise,  counted  all  this  child's-play  an 
interruption.  He  had  come  to  find  Colossus  and 
the  money.  In  an  unlucky  moment  he  made  bold 
to  lay  hold  of  the  parson,  but  a  piece  of  the  bro- 
ken barriers  in  the  hands  of  a  flat-boatman  felled 
him  to  the  sod,  the  terrible  crowd  swept  over  him, 
the  lariat  was  cut  and  the  giant  parson  hurled  the 
tiger  upon  the  buffalo's  back.  In  another  instant 
both  brutes  were  dead  at  the  hands  of  the  mob; 
Jones  was  lifted  from  his  feet,  and  prating  of 
Scripture  and  the  millennium,  of  Paul  at  Ephesus 
and  Daniel  in  the  "  buffer's  "  den,  was  borne  aloft 
upon  the  shoulders  of  the  huzzaing  Amdricains. 
Half  an  hour  later  he  was  sleeping  heavily  on  the 
floor  of  a  cell  in  the  calabozo. 

When  Parson  Jones  awoke,  a  bell  was  some- 
where tolling  for  midnight.  Somebody  was  at 
the  door  of  his  cell  with  a  key.  The  lock  grated, 
the  door  swung,  the  turnkey  looked  in  and  stepped 
back,  and  a  ray  of  moonlight  fell  upon  M.  Jules 


22O  Old  Creole  Days. 

St.-Ange.  The  prisoner  sat  upon  the  empty 
shackles  and  ring-bolt  in  the  centre  of  the  floor. 

"  Misty  Posson  Jone',"  said  the  visitor,  softly. 

"  O  Jools  !  " 

"  Mais,  w'at  de  matter,  Posson  Jone'  ?  " 

"  My  sins,  Jools,  my  sins  !  " 

"  Ah !  Posson  Jone',  is  that  something  to  cry, 
because  a  man  get  sometime  a  litt'  bit  intoxicate  ? 
Mais,  if  a  man  keep  all  the  time  intoxicate,  I  think 
that  is  again'  the  conscien'." 

"  Jools,  Jools,  your  eyes  is  darkened— oh  !  Jools, 
where's  my  pore  old  niggah  ?  " 

"  Posson  Jone',  never  min'  ;  he  is  wid  Baptiste." 

"  Where  ? 

"  I  don'  know  w'ere — niais  he  is  wid  Baptiste. 
Baptiste  is  a  beautiful  to  take  care  of  somebody." 

"  Is  he  as  good  as  you,  Jules  ?"  asked  .Parson 
Jones,  sincerely. 

Jules  was  slightly  staggered. 

"  You  know,  Posson  Jone',  you  know,  a  nigger 
cannot  be  good  as  a  w'ite  man — mats  Baptiste  is  a 
good  nigger." 

The  parson  moaned  and  dropped  his  chin  into 
his  hands. 

"  I  was  to  of  left  for  home  to-morrow,  sun-up, 
on  the  Isabella  schooner.  Pore  Smyrny  !  "  He 
deeply  sighed. 

"  Posson  Jone',"  said  Jules,  leaning  against  the 
wall  and  smiling,  "  I  swear  you  is  the  moz  funny 


" Posson  jfone."  221 

man  I  ever  see.  If  I  was  you  I  would  say,  me, 
'  Ah  !  'ow  I  am  lucky !  the  money  I  los',  it  was 
not  mine,  anyhow  ! '  My  faith  !  shall  a  man  make 
hisse'f  to  be  the  more  sorry  because  the  money  he 
los'  is  not  his  ?  Me,  I  would  say,  '  it  is  a  specious 
providence.' 

"Ah  !  Misty  Posson  Jone',"  he  continued,  "you 
make  a  so  droll  sermon  ad  the  bull-ring.  Ha  ! 
ha  !  L  swear  I  thing  you  can  make  money  to 
preach  thad  sermon  many  time  ad  the  theatre  St. 
Philippe.  Hah !  you  is  the  moz  brave  dat  I  never 
see,  mats  ad  the  same  time  the  moz  rilligious  man. 
Where  I'm  goin'  to  fin'  one  priest  to  make  like 
dat  ?  Mais,  why  you  can't  cheer  up  an'  be  'appy  ? 
Me,  if  I  should  be  miserabl'  like  that  I  would  kill 
meself." 

The  countryman  only  shook  his  head. 

"  Bien^  Posson  Jone',  I  have  the  so  good  news 
for  you." 

The  prisoner  looked  up  with  eager  inquiry. 

"  Las'  evening  when  they  lock'  you,  I  come  right 
off  at  M.  De  Blanc's  house  to  get  you  let  out  of  de 
calaboose  ;  M.  De  Blanc  he  is  the  judge.  So  soon 
I  was  entering — '  Ah  !  Jules,  me  boy,  juz  the  man 
to  make  complete  the  game  ! '  Posson  Jone',  it  was 
a  specious  providence  !  I  win  in  t'ree  hours  more 
dan  six  hundred  dollah  !  Look."  He  produced  a 
mass  of  bank-notes,  bons,  and  due-bills. 

"  And  you  got  the  pass  ?  "  asked  the  parson,  re- 


222  Old  Creole  Days. 

garding  the  money  with  a  sadness  incomprehensi- 
ble to  Jules'. 

"  It  is  here  ;  it  take  the  effect  so  soon  the  day- 
light." 

"  Jools,  my  friend,  your  kindness  is  in  vain." 

The  Creole's  face  became  a  perfect  blank. 

"Because,"  said  the  parson,  "for  two  reasons: 
firstly,  I  have  broken  the  laws,  and  ought  to  stand 
the  penalty ;  and  secondly — you  must  really  ex- 
cuse me,  Jools,  you  know,  but  the  pass  has  been 
got  onfairly,  I'm  afeered.  You  told  the  judge  I 
was  innocent ;  and  in  neither  case  it  don't  become 
a  Christian  (which  I  hope  I  can  still  say  I  am  one) 
to  '  do  evil  that  good  may  come.'  I  muss  stay." 

M.  St.  Ange  stood  up  aghast,  and  for  a  moment 
speechless,  at  this  exhibition  of  moral  heroism  ; 
but  an  artifice  was  presently  hit  upon.  "  Mais, 
Posson  Jone'  !  " — in  his  old  falsetto — "  de  order — 
you  cannot  read  it,  it  is  in  French — compel  you  to 
go  hout,  sir  !  " 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  cried  the  parson,  bounding  up 
with  radiant  face — "  is  that  so,  Jools  ?  " 

The  young  man  nodded,  smiling  ;  but,  though 
he  smiled,  the  fountain  of  his  tenderness  was 
opened.  He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  as  the 
parson  knelt  in  prayer,  and  even  whispered  "  Hail 
Mary,"  etc.,  quite  through,  twice  over. 

Morning  broke  in  summer  glory  upon  a  cluster 
pf  villas  behind  the  city,  nestled  under  live-oaks 


" Posson  Jone"  223 

and  magnolias  on  the  banks  of  a  deep  bayou, 
and  known  as  Suburb  St.  Jean. 

With  the  first  beam  came  the  West-Floridian 
and  the  Creole  out  upon  the  bank  below  the  vil- 
lage. Upon  the  parson's  arm  hung  a  pair  of  an- 
tique saddle-bags.  Baptiste  limped  wearily  be- 
hind ;  both  his  eyes  were  encircled  with  broad, 
blue  rings  and  one  cheek-bone  bore  the  official  im- 
press of  every  knuckle  of  Colossus's  left  hand. 
The  "  beautiful  to  take  care  of  somebody  "  had 
lost  his  charge.  At  mention  of  the  negro  he  be- 
came wild,  and,  half  in  English,  half  in  the  "  gumbo" 
dialect,  said  murderous  things.  Intimidated  by 
Jules  to  calmness,  he  became  able  to  speak  confi- 
dently on  one  point  ;  he  could,  would,  and  did 
swear  that  Colossus  had  gone  home  to  the  Florida 
parishes  ;  he  was  almost  certain  ;  in  fact,  he  thought 
so. 

There  was  a  clicking  of  pulleys  as  the  three  ap- 
peared upon  the  bayou's  margin,  and  Baptiste 
pointed  out,  in  the  deep  shadow  of  a  great  oak, 
the  Isabella,  moored  among  the  bulrushes,  and  just 
spreading  her  sails  for  departure.  Moving  down 
to  where  she  lay,  the  parson  and  his  friend  paused 
on  the  bank,  loath  to  say  farewell. 

"  O  Jools  !  "  said  the  parson,  "  supposin'  Colos- 
sus ain't  gone  home  !  O  Jools,  if  you'll  look  him 
out  for  me,  I'll  never  forget  you — I'll  never  forget 
you,  nohow,  Jools.  No,  Jools,  I  never  will  believe 


224  Old  Creole  Days. 

he  taken  that  money.  Yes,  I  know  all  niggahs 
will  steal  " — he  set  foot  upon  the  gang-plank — • 
"  but  Colossus  wouldn't  steal  from  me.  Good-by." 

"  Misty  Posson  Jone',"  said  St.  Ange,  putting 
his  hand  on  the  parson's  arm  with  genuine  affec- 
tion, "  hoi'  on.  You  see  dis  money — w'at  I  win 
las'  night  ?  Well,  I  win'  it  by  a  specious  provi- 
dence, ain't  it  ?  " 

"There's  no  tellin',"  said  the  humbled  Jones. 
"  Providence 

'  Moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform.'  " 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  the  Creole,  "  cest  very  true.  I  ged 
this  money  in  the  mysterieuze  way.  Mais,  if  I 
keep  dis  money,  you  know  where  it  goin'  be  to- 
night ?  " 

"  I  really  can't  say,"  replied  the  parson. 

"  Goin'  to  de  dev',"  said  the  sweetly-smiling 
young  man. 

The  schooner  -  captain,  leaning  against  the 
shrouds,  and  even  Baptiste,  laughed  outright. 

"  O  Jools,  you  mustn't !  " 

"Well,  den,  w'at  I  shall  do  wid  it?  " 

"  Anything  !  "  answered  the  parson  ;  "  better 
donate  it  away  to  some  poor  man " 

"  Ah  !  Misty  Posson  Jone',  dat  is  w'at  I  want, 
You  los'  five  hondred  dollar' — 'twas  me  fault." 

"  No,  it  wa'n't,  Jools." 


"  Posson  Jone'."  225 

"  Mais,  it  was  !  " 

"  No  !  " 

"  It  was  me  fault !  I  swear  it  was  me  fault ! 
Mais,  here  is  five  hondred  dollar' ;  I  wish  you 
shall  take  it.  Here  !  I  don't  got  no  use  for 
money. — Oh,  my  faith  !  Posson  Jone',  you  must 
not  begin  to  cry  some  more." 

Parson  Jones  was  choked  with  tears.  When  he 
found  voice,  he  said  : 

"  O  Jools,  Jools,  Jools  !  my  pore,  noble,  dear, 
misguidened  friend  !  ef  you  hed  of  hed  a  Chris- 
tian raisin'  !  May  the  Lord  show  you  your  errors 
better'n  I  kin,  and  bless  you  for  your  good  inten- 
tions— oh,  no  !  I  cayn't  touch  that  money  with  a 
ten-foot  pole  ;  it  wa'n't  rightly  got ;  you  must 
really  excuse  me,  my  dear  friend,  but  I  cayn't 
touch  it." 

St.-Ange  was  petrified. 

"  Good-by,  dear  Jools,"  continued  the  parson, 
"  I'm  in  the  Lord's  haynds  and  he's  very  merciful, 
which  I  hope  and  trust  you'll  find  it  out.  Good- 
by  !  " — the  schooner  swang  slowly  off  before  the 
breeze — "  good-by  !  " 

St.-Ange  roused  himself. 

"  Posson  Jone'  !  make  me  hany'ow  dis  promise  : 
you  never,  never,  never  will  come  back  to  New 
Orleans." 

"  Ah,  Jools,  the  Lord  willin',  I'll  never  leave 
home  again  !  " 
'5 


226  Old  Creole  Days. 

"All  right!"  cried  the  Creole;  "I  thing  he's 
willin'.  Adieu,  Posson  Jone'.  My  faith'  !  you 
are  the  so  fighting  an'  moz  rilligious  man  as  I 
never  saw  !  Adieu  !  Adieu  !  " 

Baptiste  uttered  a  cry  and  presently  ran  by  his 
master  toward  the  schooner,  his  hands  full  of  clods. 

St.-Ange  looked  just  in  time  to  see  the  sable 
form  of  Colossus  of  Rhodes  emerge  from  the  ves- 
sel's hold,  and  the  pastor  of  Smyrna  and  Bethesda 
seize  him  in  his  embrace. 

"  O  Colossus !  you  outlandish  old  nigger ! 
Thank  the  Lord  !  Thank  the  Lord  !  " 

The  little  Creole  almost  wept.  He  ran  down  the 
tow-path,  laughing  and  swearing,  and  making  con- 
fused allusion  to  the  entire  personnel  and  furniture 
of  the  lower  regions. 

By  odd  fortune,  at  the  moment  that  St.-Ange 
further  demonstrated  his  delight  by  tripping  his 
mulatto  into  a  bog,  the  schooner  came  brushing 
along  the  reedy  bank  with  a  graceful  curve,  the 
sails  flapped,  and  the  crew  fell  to  poling  her  slowly 
along. 

Parson  Jones  was  on  the  deck,  kneeling  once 
more  in  prayer.  His  hat  had  fallen  before  him ; 
behind  him  knelt  his  slave.  In  thundering  tones 
he  was  confessing  himself  "  a  plum  fool,"  from 
whom  "  the  conceit  had  been  jolted  out,"  and  who 
had  been  made  to  see  that  even  his  "  nigger  had 
the  longest  head  of  the  two." 


"  Pass  on  Jone"  227 

Colossus  clasped  his  hands  and  groaned. 

The  parson  prayed  for  a  contrite  heart. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  cried  Colossus. 

The  master  acknowledged  countless  mercies. 

"  Dat's  so  !  "  cried  the  slave. 

The  master  prayed  that  they  might  still  be 
"  piled  on." 

"  Glory  ! "  cried  the  black  man,  clapping  his 
hands  ;  "  pile  on  !  " 

"  An'  now,"  continued  the  parson,  "bring  this 
pore,  backslidin'  jackace  of  a  parson  and  this  pore 
ole  fool  nigger  back  to  thar  home  in  peace !  " 

"  Pray  fo'  de  money  !  "  called  Colossus. 

But  the  parson  prayed  for  Jules. 

"  Pray  fo'  de  money  !  "  repeated  the  negro. 

"  And  oh,  give  thy  servant  back  that  there  lost 
money  !  " 

Colossus  rose  stealthily,  and  tiptoed  by  his  still 
shouting  master.  St.-Ange,  the  captain,  the  crew, 
gazed  in  silent  wonder  at  the  strategist.  Pausing 
but  an  instant  over  the  master's  hat  to  grin  an  ac- 
knowledgment of  his  beholders'  speechless  interest, 
he  softly  placed  in  it  the  faithfully-mourned  and 
honestly-prayed-for  Smyrna  fund ;  then,  saluted 
by  the  gesticulative,  silent  applause  of  St.-Ange 
and  the  schoonermen,  he  resumed  his  first  attitude 
behind  his  roaring  master. 

"  Amen  !  "  cried  Colossus,  meaning  to  bring 
him  to  a  close. 


228  Old  Creole  Days. 

"  Onworthy  though  I  be "  cried  Jones. 

"  Amen  /  "  reiterated  the  negro. 

"  A-a-amen  !  "  said  Parson  Jones. 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  stooping  to  take  up  his 
hat,  beheld  the  well-known  roll.  As  one  stunned, 
he  gazed  for  a  moment  upon  his  slave,  who  still 
knelt  with  clasped  hands  and  rolling  eyeballs ;  but 
when  he  became  aware  of  the  laughter  and  cheers 
that  greeted  him  from  both  deck  and  shore,  he 
lifted  eyes  and  hands  to  heaven,  and  cried  like  the 
veriest  babe.  And  when  he  looked  at  the  roll 
again,  and  hugged  and  kissed  it,  St.-Ange  tried  to 
raise  a  second  shout,  but  choked,  and  the  crew 
fell  to  their  poles. 

And  now  up  runs  Baptiste,  covered  with  slime, 
and  prepares  to  cast  his  projectiles.  The  first  one 
fell  wide  of  the  mark  ;  the  schooner  swung  round 
into  a  long  reach  of  water,  where  the  breeze  was  in 
her  favor  ;  another  shout  of  laughter  drowned  the 
maledictions  of  the  muddy  man  ;  the  sails  filled  ; 
Colossus  of  Rhodes,  smiling  and  bowing  as  hero 
of  the  moment,  ducked  as  the  main  boom  swept 
round,  and  the  schooner,  leaning  slightly  to  the 
pleasant  influence,  rustled  a  moment  over  the  bul- 
rushes, and  then  sped  far  away  down  the  rippling 
bayou. 

M.  Jules  St.-Ange  stood  long,  gazing  at  the  re- 
ceding vessel  as  it  now  disappeared,  now  reap- 
peared beyond  the  tops  of  the  high  undergrowth  ; 


" Posson  Jone"  229 

but,  when  an  arm  of  the  forest  hid  it  finally  from 
sight,  he  turned  town-ward,  followed  by  that 
fagged-out  spaniel,  his  servant,  saying,  as  he 
turned,  "  Baptiste." 

"  Miche?" 

"  You  know  w'at  I  goin'  do  wid  dis  money  ?  " 

"  Non,  m'sieur." 

"  Well,  you  can  strike  me  dead  if  I  don't  goin' 
to  pay  hall  my  debts  !  Allons  !  " 

He  began  a  merry  little  song  to  the  effect  that 
his  sweetheart  was  a  wine-bottle,  and  master  and 
man,  leaving  care  behind,  returned  to  the  pictur> 
esque  Rue  Royale.  The  ways  of  Providence  are 
indeed  strange.  In  all  Parson  Jones's  after-life, 
amid  the  many  painful  reminiscences  of  his  visit  to 
the  City  of  the  Plain,  the  sweet  knowledge  was 
withheld  from  him  that  by  the  light  of  the  Chris- 
tian virtue  that  shone  from  him  even  in  his  great 
fall,  Jules  St.-Ange  arose,  and  went  to  his  father, 
an  honest  man. 


THE  END. 


OLD  CREOLE  DAYS 

BY 

GEORGE   W.  CABLE. 

One   Volume,   16mo,   extra  cloth,        -       •  Sl.OO. 


Mr.  Cable's  sketches  of  life  in  the  old  French  quarter  of  New  Orleans 
display  a  freshness  and  originality,  an  insight  into  the  character  of  the 
mixed  races  there,  and  a  faculty  of  seizing  on  the  picturesque  phases  of 
life  among  these  oddly  contrasted  people,  that  give  them  an  importance 
far  above  their  value  as  a  mere  collection  of  clever  stories.  "Sieur 
George,"  "Madame  Delicieuse,''  "  Jean-ah  Poquelin,"  and  "The  Belles 
Demoiselles'  Plantation,"  are  some  of  the  stories  included — carrying  even 
in  their  titles  some  of  their  quaint  attractiveness. 

CRITICAL    NOTICES. 

•'  It  is  very  seldom  indeed  that  we  meet  with  a  book  so  distinctly  marking  the  advent 
of  a  writer  of  high  artistic  power  and  fresh  observation,  as  this  of  Mr.  Cable's.  After 
re-reading  carefully,  and  with  the  keenest  enjoyment,  the  stories  now  collected  under  one 
heading,  we  not  only  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  their  author  a  genius  with  special 
and  captivating  endowments,  but  we  feel  it  an  imperative  critical  duty  to  so  declare  him." 

— Boston  Courier. 

"  Mr.  Cable  has  the  rare  gift  of  keen  observation  united  to  great  descriptive  power. 
.  .  .  He  has  portrayed  the  character  of  the  remnant  of  France  stranded  on  a  loreign 
shore,  in  so  many  aspects,  that  the  reader  gains  a  most  perfect  idea  of  the  strange  com- 
pound of  courtesy  and  selfishness,  of  grace  and  untriuhfumess,  of  bravery  and  cunning, 
which  that  character  presents.  .  .  The  stories,  themselves,  display  an  inventive  genius 
which  ranks  the  author  among  the  best  of  our  modern  writers." — Christian  Intelligencer. 

"These  charming  stories  attract  attention  and  commendation  by  their  quaint  delicacy 
of  style,  their  faithful  delirteation  of  Creole  character,  and  a  marked  originality.  The 
careful  rendering  of  the  dialect  reveals  patient  study  of  living  models  ;  and  to  any  reader 
whose  ear  is  accustomed  to  the  broken  English,  as  heard  in  the  parts  of  our  city  every 
day,  its  truth  to  nature  is  striking." — New  Orleans  Picayune. 

"  Here  is  true  art  work.  Here  is  poetry,  pathos,  tragedy,  humor.  Here  is  an  entranc- 
ing style.  Here  is  a  new  field,  one  full  of  passion  and  beauty.  Here  is  local  color  with 
strong  drawing.  Here,  in  this  little  volume,  is  life,  breath,  and  blood.  The  author  of 
this  book  is  an  artist,  and  over  such  a  revelation  one  may  be  permitted  strong  words." 

"To  a  keen  zest  for  what  is  antique  and  picturesque,  Mr.  Cable  adds  a  surprising 
skill,  for  so  young  a  writer,  in  conceiving  and  developing  a  plot.  .  .  .  He  has  ren- 
dered very  finely  the  attractive  childlike  quality  so  often  seen  among  men  of  Latin  races, 
and  as  to  his  women,  they  are  as  delightful  as  the  scent  of  the  flowers  which  he  mentions 
every  now  and  then."— N.  Y.  Times. 

"  The  seven  sketches  which  compose  this  bright  little  volume  are  full  of  a  delicate  pathetic 
kumor  which  lias  rarely  been  equaled  in  American  Literature."— Detroit  Free  Press. 

11  Then  half-pathetic,  half-humorous,  and  altogether  delicate  sketches,  constitute 
extremeiy  good  literature.  .  .  .  There  is  the  touch  of  a  true  artist  in  them." — Ev.  Post. 

"  These  stories  contain  a  most  attractive  blending  of  vivid  descriptions  of  local  scenery 
nth  admirable  delineations  of  personal  character." — Congregationalist. 


%*  The   above    book  for  tale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent,  prepaid,  *fon 
rtttift  of  frice,  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS,  PUBLISHERS, 

743  ANO  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


The   Boy^s  Froissart. 

EDITED  WITH  AN  INTBODUOTION 
By     SIDNEY      LANIER. 

WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    ALFRED  KAPPES. 


One  Volume,  crown  8vo,  extra  cloth,    -       $3.OO. 

"  A  s  you  read  of  the  fair  knights  and  the  foul  knights— for  Froissart  tells  of 
both — it  cannot  but  occur  to  you  tkat  somehow  it  seems  harder  to  be  a  good  knight 
now-a-days  than  it  was  then  .  .  .  Nevertheless  the  same  qualities  which  made 
a  manful  fighter  then,  make  one  now.  To  speak  the  very  truth,  to  perform  a  promise 
to  the  utmost,  to  reverence  all  women,  to  maintain  right  and  honesty,  to  help  the 
weak  ;  to  treat  hi^h  and  low  with  courtesy,  to  be  constant  to  one  love,  to  be  fair  to  a 
bitter  foe,  to  despise  luxury,  to  pursue  simplicity,  modesty  and  gentleness  in  heart 
and  bearing,  this  was  in  the  oath  of  the  young  knight  who  took  the  stroke  upon  him 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  and  this  is  still  the  way  to  win  love  and  glory  in  tftf 
nineteenth." — EXTRACT  FROM  THE  PREFACE. 


CRITICAL     NOTICES. 

"There  is  no  reason  why  Sir  John  Froissart  should  not  become  as  well  known  to 
young  readers  as  Robinson  Crusoe  himself." — Literary  World. 

"  Though  Mr.  Lanier  calls  his  edition  of  Froissart  a  book  for  boys,  it  is  a  book  for 
men  as  well,  and  many  there  be  of  the  latter  who  will  enjoy  its  pages." — N.  Y.  Rve.  Mail. 

"  We  greet  this  book  with  positive  enthusiasm,  feeling  that  the  presentation  of 
Froissart  in  a  shape  so  tempting  to  youth  is  a  particularly  worthy  task,  particularly  well 
done."— TV.  Y.  Eve.  Post. 

"  The  book  is  romantic,  poetical,  and  full  of  the  real  adventure  which  is  so  much 
more  wholesome,  than  the  sham  which  fills  so  much  of  the  stimulating  juvenile  literature 
of  the  day."—  Detroit  Free  Press. 

"That  boy  will  be  lucky  who  gets  Mr.  Sidney  Lanier's  'Boy's  Froissart'  for  a 
Christmas  present  this  year.  There  is  no  better  and  healthier  reading  for  boys  than  '  Fine 
Sir  John  ;  '  and  this  volume  is  so  handsome,  so  well  printed,  and  so  well  illustrated  tliat 
it  is  a  pleasure  to  look  it  over." — Nation. 

"Mr.  Sidney  Lanier,  in  editing  a  boy's  version  of  Froissart,  has  not  only  opened  to 
them  a  world  of  romantic  and  poetic  legend  of  the  chivalric  and  heroic  sort,  but  he  has 
given  them  something  which  ennobles  and  does  not  poison  the  mind.  Old  Froissart  was 
a  gentleman  every  inch :  he  hated  the  base,  the  cowardly,  the  paltry  ;.  he  loved  the 
knightly,  the  heroic,  the  gentle,  and  this  spirit  breathes  through  all  his  chronicles.  There 
is  a  genuineness,  too,  about  his  writings  that  gives  them  a  literary  value." 

—Baltimore  Gazette. 

"  In  his  work  of  editing  the  famous  knightly  chronicle  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  declared 
inspired  him  with  more  enthusiasm  than  even  poetry  itself,  Mr.  Lanier  has  shown, 
naturally,  a  warm  appreciativeness  and  also  a  nice  power  of  discrimination.  He  has 
culled  the  choicest  of  the  chronicles,  the  most  romantic,  and  at  the  same  time  most  com- 
plete, and  has  digested  them  into  an  orderly  compact  volume,  upon  which  the  publishers 
have  lavished  fine  paper,  presswork  and  binding,  and  that  is  illustrated  by  a  number  of 
cuts."—  Philadelphia  Times. 


*#*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  Jtrict 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

Nos.  743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


The 

Letters  of  CharlesDickens. 

Edited  by  his  Sister-in-Law  and  his  Eldest  Daughter. 
With  several  Fac-simile  Letters. 


Two  Volumes,  12mo,  cloth,     -  $3.OO. 


nimselt  Dy  nimseil.  Aitogetner,  tne  letters  give  sucn  a  revelation  01 
the  man  as  nothing  else  could  give  so  well,  and  as  might  make  a  substitute 
for  any  biography.  


CRITICAL  NOTICES. 

"  Their  literary  merit  is  great  and  genuine  ;   they  are  freshly  and  spontaneously 
tten  in  English  that  is  clear  ai  ' 
they  give  of  their  author  is  striki 


written  in  English  that  is  clear  and  strong  and  unaffected  in  a  high  degree.  The  picture 
ey  give  of  their  author  is  striking  and  singularly  pleasant.  They  bring  home  to  the 
ader  the  full  force  of  his  personality,  in  all  its  richness  and  expansiyeness,  its  indom- 


itable energy  and  splendid  self-consciousness,  its  elasticity  and  resolution,  the  irresistible 
authority  of  its  union  of  vigor  and  charm  ;  and  they  heighten  the  reader's  opinion  of  him 
as  a  private  man  and  as  a  man  of  genius." — London  Athenczum. 

"  No  formal  portrait  could  be  half  so  vivid.  In  this  book,  which  was  never  intended 
to  be  a  book,  we  come  nearer  to  the  man  as  he  was,  than  any  biographer  could  have 
brought  us.  .  .  .  The  letters  do  not  show  us  Dickens  at  work,  but  Dickens  at  play, 
relieved  from  the  strain  of  facing  the  public,  and  tossing  off  the  impressions  of  the 
moment  for  the  sympathetic  appreciation  of  his  own  inner  circle.  The  editors  say  that 
no  man  ever  expressed  himself  more  in  his  letters  than  Charles  Dickens.  No  man 
certainly  ever  expressed  a  livelier  or  more  considerate  friendship,  a  purer  affection,  or  a 
more  exhilarating  sense  of  the  ridiculous." — Fortnightly  Review. 

"Some  of  the  new  letters  published  within  the  last  week  from  the  pen  of  Charles 
Dickens  are  amongst  the  most  amusing  compositions  in  the  English  language.  .  .  . 
They  flash  Dickens  on  you  with  as  much  vigor  as  if  they  gave  you  a  glimpse  of  him  in  a 
magic-lantern." — London  Spectator. 

"  That  bright  sparkling  style,  that  tenderness  of  heart  and  fund  of  cheery  humoi; 
that  odd,  keen,  humorous  way  of  observing  and  noting  things,  that  appreciation  of  and 
affection  for  hosts  of  friends,  which  we  already  knew  to  lie  aVnong  his  most  lovable  traits, 
are  to  be  yet  once  more  tasted  and  enjoyed  in  these  pages." — Literary  World. 

"The  attractiveness  of  these  volumes  lies  in  their  free  and  natural  exhibition  of 

"  Of  three  things  noticeable  in  this  correspondence,  one  is  the  prevailing  cheerful- 
ness of  high  spirits.  ,  .  .  The  other  two  noticeable  things  are  the  great  excellence 
flexibility  and  simpleness  of  style  from  the  very  first,  and  the  surprising  quantity  of  highly 
entertaining  epistolary  writing  produced  by  this  one  man." — Boston  Courier. 

* ^  Far    sale    by    all   booksellers,   or    sent  postpaid,    upon    receipt    of  price, 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS; 

Nos.  743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


t.The   oh  arm   of   these   nearly   perfect   stories  lie*   In   their 
•*qul»ite  simplicity  and  most  tender  humor."— PHILADELPHIA  Tuu» 


RUDDER    GRANGE. 

By  FRANK  R.  STOCKTON. 


One  Volume,  16mo,  Extra  Cloth,  attractive  binding*,  91.2S. 


44  Humor  like  this  is  perennial." — Washington  Pott. 

"  Mr.  Stockton  has  rare  gifts  for  this  style  of  writing,  and  hat 
developed  in  these  papers  remarkable  genius." — Pittsburgh  Gazette. 

44  A  cei  tain  humorous  seriousness  over  matters  that  are  not  serious 
surrounds  the  story,  even  in  its  most  indifferent  parts,  with  an  atmosphere, 
an  aroma  of  very  quaint  and  delightful  humor." — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

"Mr.  Stockton's  vein  of  humor  is  a  fresh  and  rich  one,  that  affords 
pleasure  to  mature  people  as  well  as  to  youne  ones.  Thus  far,  '  Rudder  . 
Grange '  is  his  best  effort."— Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

"  Rudder  Grange  is  an  ideal  book  to  take  into  the  country  for 
summer  reading." — Portland  Press. 

"  Rudder  Grange  is  really  a  very  delightful  piece  of  fooling,  but,  like 
all  fooling  that  is  worth  the  while,  it  has  point  and  purpose." — Phil. 
Telegraph. 

"The  odd  conceit  of  making  his  young  couple  try  their  hands  at 
house-keeping  first  in  an  old  canal  boat,  suggests  many  droll  situations, 
which  the  author  improves  with  a  frolicsome  humor  that  is  all  liis  own." 
'—Worcester  Spy. 

"  There  is  in  these  chapters  a  rare  and  captivating  drollery.     .     .     .  , 
We  have  had  more  pleasure  in  reading  them  over  again  than  we  had  when 
they  first  appeared  in  the  magazine." — Congregationalism 


•»*  Tk*  about  book  for  talt  by  all  bookseller*,  or  will  bt  tent,  frefaid,   *fim 
rtttift  of  trice,  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  PUBLISHERS, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK, 


University  of  California  Library 
Los  Angeles 

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